Modern Romanticism

Do lift

What keeps us down,

What keeps us low

On this deathbed, too early in the show

Of showers of snow.

Raise us,

For my form has gone cold,

And weep over the both of us,

For we both seemed to have died.

Lie awake for me, so that I may pet flesh

As the phantom I am.

Your flesh

As cold as the winter around,

And as the snow that has drifted

Into your frozen eyes.