Modern Romanticism

It’s about burning
to leave a trail,
to scatter onto fields
remains of yesterday’s
unsteady ways.

I hope to be cleansed
upon rejuvenated,
anticipated effort.

I despise when I halt,
before knowing if
this is the end.

It’s about turning
into the worst
of what rain lets in,
drowning to be
one broken reflection.

I hope to know why
I was left behind to die,
to set with the sun.

I’m deafened
to the screams I let out,
blinded to cuts
streaming what I kept
locked inside.

It’s about blossoming
once the floods are drained,
once the embedded,
concrete stains
are given another name.