Modern Romanticism

Deprived of what I
let loose, let become
rapids for my
stagnant side.

All frozen,
bleakness in a puddle
reflecting a sky
turned gray.

All broken
with pieces I miss
from gathering
flung stones.

Teardrops fell from me,
a clock has stopped
for me, because of me,
before I turned
to a different chime
in the stripping wind.

There are words I say
in hopes that someone
will hear them.

There are messages I relay
when knowing well
that I’m in Hell.

A life as a star
that’s long set,
taking a dive behind
a thinning line.

A death to be won,
anchored in the deep
where flavors are wept,
tremors are kept.