Modern Romanticism

For days I’ve dreamed,
until the nights I’ve wept
for hope that never leaves
this crawlspace,
where I linger
among dead leaves.

From faces I revisit
in rewinding thoughts,
I fail to bloom
with their weights
on my back.

There’s this single step
to take, before the fall,
before the merge
from black into white.

There’s depth to submit to,
to plunge my form into,
to bring a chapter to a close,
a heart to be silenced.

This sting, this hollow
crevice of an avenue
has led me here.

I won’t retreat
when I know
the sun won’t rise.