Modern Romanticism

It starts
as abrupt admittance
in a sweet estrangement
from internal wartime,
as I didn’t want
to rebuild the bridge
I kept collapsing.

My face reviews itself
in puddles from the past,
a reflection
for bold consideration,
to drown the moon
after a noose
has hung it low.

I must accompany
the clean sunlight
washing my hands,
while under the limelight
of modification.

I’m making changes
for this constant whirlwind
to move me,
upon an ocean
meant to bathe me.

The emptiest of days
become blessed turnouts,
as I rewrite myself
on the path
I’ve been walking.