Modern Romanticism

Swimming with
the current,
the present strain
of your days,
taking off with
one more excuse
to escape.

It’s the light
you hide from,
burrowed in,
borrowing from
former examples,
regardless of chaos,
the thunder,
the wind.

A clock chimes,
telling you to get off
the single stop
you recognize
is what tells you to stop
moving forward.

Your mouth,
it spits
onto ripe fruit,
while your glare,
it scorns
what can come after.

For whispers,
they’re too delicate
to ever matter,
to simplify.

They’re prayers,
uttered for you
in a room just as dark
as your history.