Modern Romanticism

It’s been this year
when I’ve grown fatal,
falling forward
to ask the night sky
to present what I
keep surviving.

Tears don’t sustain,
fresh faces don’t sprinkle
needed nourishment
over depleted scenery.

My heart’s a cave,
as my mind is a well
that recollects
what’s reused up.

I’m living on the inside,
where adjacent hallways
are scarred with tallys
that count the days
I’ve lived without breath
to guide, to steer
a lost ship.

Into a fossilizing sleep,
I return this mind
to insincere seconds
that still cannot
recapture a life
too far from this world
riddled with strife.

Repeated phrases,
reenvisioned sights
return me
to the bottom
where Hell has warmth
for a fever that grows
to cover hands,
to issue a constant
reprimand.