Modern Romanticism

Thick vapor
exits from an open,
eager pair of lips,
for I’m holding on
to what I brought in
on its knees.

Distortion
comes from the days
left behind,
left to drag on
their stubborn presence
as phantoms.

They’re in,
until they’re out
from ebony
to ivory.

They’re floating
upon the same lane
that I’m walking.

They’re disguised
in long trails of smoke,
from burned pages
detailing history’s
pained conclusions.

I’m asking for a cure
to keep sickness absent,
if not buried,
when it is clear
in fumes that sting
forward eyesight.