Modern Romanticism

Remind me.
Which direction
were you
meant to go?

High up,
perched like a crow
on your vessel,
you’ve caught no light
in those dark eyes.

Tears are not
distinguishable
from the rain,
falling with you,
as you repeat
the words.

The reason
you’re in pain.
The space
you devote your dreams
to an unending nightmare
has collapsed
your vision.

What remedy
can heal such grave,
undressed wounds
flooding your tomb
before you’ve entered it?

What field
will sprout sustenance
able to nurture
your cold mind,
into the spring
of a beginning?