A space to crawl,
a room to be,
far from where sympathy
sheds its momentary
residue.
From you,
you drop all anchors,
letting loose
all manner of Hell
you’ve raised.
A lie is your vow
to deplete you into
forced safety.
A dream is your reality
where you fall up
to be lost in clouds.
It’s an instinct,
born from fear’s release,
to be concealed
in earthen corners.
Your death
is an answer
to a solemn life’s
brittle question.
Entertained by
such a meaningless gesture
to appear large
when you know
you have remained
as the infant
wrapped in a curtain.
Modern Romanticism 
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