Fragile,
Mournful
Of the snow that takes shape
Of a man’s crumpled hand,
With edges
That carry him down.
Weakened,
Overtaken
Of the breaking mind,
Wallowing in sustenance
Too heavy to hold,
Though he walks.
Bleeding
Sunrise, into the wastes
Of burned fields,
Sickened moors,
Orchards that loose more apples
Than ever he did of sin.
Will water
Quenched the starved lips,
Reminiscent of a kiss
Never allowed?
Will the moon
Show its true face
On the time
When scenery is sent off?
Modern Romanticism 