Modern Romanticism

Beneath skin,
there’s this sin,
there’s this deprivation
unmended with time,
because of my
constant instigation.

When I walk,
I’m borrowing more
than I can bring back
to resolve the cost,
to balance loss.

When I run,
it’s always a retreat
to distant storms,
of flashing thunder
breaking horizons.

I’m crawling
like an infant,
crying to be reborn,
for this life
held onto the strife
that’s liquified.

The thought of
dropping weights
feels like breaking glass
at a pair of feet
I have a hard time
recalling are mine.