Modern Romanticism

Your remnants,
captured,
somewhat alive,
inside a bottle
to drink from,
during whatever chance
there might be left.

I have no answers
to fill in
this raging void,
cutting me off
from what I must do
to survive.

I cannot rise
higher than a line
drawn on the surface,
paralyzing me
on both sides.

There are screams,
there are wishes
to flood fields with.
Here, I’m drifting
after letting go
of your hand
to the burning wind.

There are nightmares
being played with.
I’m like a child,
lost in their imagination.
I have curiosity
hanging loosely
like a curtain
or a bandage.