Modern Romanticism

Attached to you,
there’s fallen leaves
trom crooked boughs.
Linked to you
branches are frail
in holding your current
from sweeping away
through time.

Fire rises
when you come up
in sensing your worth,
as better than the birth
of your tragedy.

Build, through tension,
mourn, through the state
where you’ve surrendered
to your undoing fate.

Don’t bottle the flame
to bury it inside.
Don’t crack the shell
to only leak tears
through its ivory.

Gather your dust
to remake 
your recognition,
outside the crime
of losing your way
to become decay.

You were well-known
beyond the hourglass,
where its bottom
holds its cracks
in a puddle
of your reflection.