Modern Romanticism

It’s the gaps
that keep returning.
It’s the imagery
often reused,
once daylight
reaches its brink.

I’m looking over
a cliff’s edge,
rediscovering a trail
that leads me
into vapor.

Another breath
to retreat with,
bandaging a damaged,
foiled life,
through amends.

I let a hand go,
made the roar deafen me,
allowed a certain sickness
to keep accusing me.

Death is a home
for someone else.
I won’t be there
while the years
keep me moving
on self-made streams.

Tears find a tongue,
dreams get forgotten,
while I’m dying
slower than the one
I reforged into memory.