Modern Romanticism

Lowered eyes
are two soft pieces
of a witness.

This punishment
is one where isolation
is the sole savior
of one who lacks
all creation.

I burn where I
don’t bleed;
I bleed when I
don’t tend to
the things that I
am holding onto.

It’s a razor,
it’s a mirror
broken into shards,
one with many
different reflections.

All masks
to the truth that I
have buried.

All demons
covering for absent,
dead angels.

Still, I hear those
who entreat me to look
where I'm afraid
to take the first step.

I hear the choir,
Heaven’s instruments
played without rest,
in their desperation
to reach me,
to pull me up.