Modern Romanticism

This aftermath is miles
from that first step.

Walking over a cliff
never felt this treacherous.

I must return
to a unified reflection,
burned into memory
with smoke to breathe,
with a history
to unsee.

I must choke on fumes
if that means I can repair,
what wasn’t the flare,
wasn’t the light
guiding me through
fossilizing nights.

I must hear the words
I had dismembered
from a mind,
one that had fallen
from its grace,
from up high.

Return me to symmetry
that’s crafted in a puddle
that doesn’t evaporate.

Return me to that sea,
that I might be able to see
what had come before
this current tragedy.