Modern Romanticism

I’ve run in circles,
stretching my hopes,
telling that, since birth,
there was something
I’ve left behind.

Existence didn’t matter
when fuses are burned,
when eyelids close
at the slightest flicker
of shimmering light.

I’ve removed the covers,
held up my honesty
to a dying flame.

I wished for too much,
more than there was
to bind these wounds.

What would Heaven decide
as soon as I come down
from this tumultuous,
exhausting ride?

What could Hell reject,
knowing I did my time
suffering somewhere
a garden had no room
to ever bloom?

There’s the flood,
there’s been shapes
rusting in their present,
final envisioning.

There’s the sickness
I’ve left go on,
as vows were avoided,
as eyes looked elsewhere,
other than here.