Modern Romanticism

Silver droplets
fall from somewhere
still too shallow to be
my burial.

I’m coming down
with the crushing storm,
no longer willing
to bottle what’s whole,
what’s saturated
in maturation.

I’ve broken chains
to be let loose,
unaccompanied,
into the wild.

I’ve fled from safety
to be in the presence
of what's covered in dust,
painted in rust.

I’ll be somewhere
lower than here,
in a spot where no scream
can be heard,
can be received
with a reply.