Modern Romanticism

Rubbed together,
idling forever
in that fervent nature
of your intensity.

You come here,
waiting for a train
for your journey
to remain endless.

There’s no stop.
There’s what you keep
hoping to return to,
embedded like darkness
in thunderclouds.

Your wings are furled,
your eyes are closed
dreaming to escape
within some thought
that is buried
after more thought.

Your face, a canvas
for exploration,
or for resignation,
depletes you to see
more ghosts
than signs.