Modern Romanticism

You don’t wait
for minutes to become
the hours to endure,
because you blink
to hide a cry.

You want for an instant
to arrive, to survive
one more speck
in your eyes.

Falling like ash
from a burning tower
to call home.

A lighthouse waits
with flickering beacon
for you to awake.

In the fire, you believe
you are at peace,
covering scars with dust,
the dark clouds
with the white-out
of resignation.

These seconds are all
you believe you deserve,
carrying flawed years
with the weight
of your fears.