Modern Romanticism

A barren trail
has dragged behind,
waiting for what I
will unwind.

A face, it pulls
my perception ahead
to confront a constant,
poignant pressure
from a wound.

A flickering,
dismembered memory
is what I’ve chased,
backwards on a path,
retreating into thorns.

I’ve been allowing
oceans to combine,
days to get longer,
futures to climb
up high,
for a plunge.

I must depart from it,
with torn, twisted sails
guiding forth what I
have left inside.

I must burn out
a spark I brought in,
believing it showed me
a world to tend to.

I will accept
a different sensation,
if I can test my strength
I’ve held back.