Modern Romanticism

It wraps around,
thorned vines
on the approach
in their hidden,
unreleased reproach.

It parallels
your voiced disinterest
for the excruciation
you close doors to.

It teems
on the rushing waters
of your forgotten void,
blissful for life.

It reigns in
your wilting need
for a remedy.

It buries back
any hope, any hint
to be inconsistent.

It's your adoration
for how misfortune favors
hurrying across scars
to retract your signatures
you once drew
to decide your resignation.

It’s a fragile commitment
to the leaves that fall
to be crushed
under what’s heavier
than their thousands.

It’s a frail state
to be this unfocused
on your wounds,
on the pile of debris
you call home.