Modern Romanticism

Sundering winds
lift up the flaps,
the loose parts of me,
those small areas
I can no longer see.

All I’m viewing
is this descent,
this long slope,
one way down.

All I’m hearing
are echoes,
those from other’s
crying voices
telling me,
pleading to me
to turn back.

I want what I want,
while I know
it’s not what I need.

I’ve built the bridge
I’ve set on fire,
never crossing it.

I was half-way
to finding peace,
in a story
that had more pages
to be written.

I’ve cancelled a dream
to let my last seconds
take flight, at this height,
shouting before I crash.