Modern Romanticism

Loss’s passage
welcomes rehearsal,
lets me put forth
one final offering
of dismissable words,
as one last prayer
in the dark.

When will I be heard,
under these low tones?

I’m crying all alone,
while no one knows.

This mirror is my
sole bit of sympathy.
The mirror is my
treasured company.
A mirror is my
escape from apathy.

I’ve reached for hope,
only for it to be
extinguished from tears
falling from open wounds.

Hear what I cannot
find it possible to hide.
Help me to heal,
because I cannot decide.

I am little more
than a burned out,
exhausted fuse,
telling tales that bring
my heart to the open
to wail, to sing.