White winter
Drafted on a page, written backwards
To this season’s beginning.
Were we ever the fog
Around our decaying eyes?
Swelled
In the season’s push
Without much to soften for,
In the current light of day.
A plea,
Turned into the sea
Of vast forgiveness
Never believed,
For its smile that enters as sunrise
Upon the defeated horizon
Holds enough for a heart to surmise,
That for where we roam
We shall go.
Travesty begets
The faintest light to cling upon,
Within our landscape.
Our kisses match the red,
As our hearts falter as the dead,
With spilling sunrise
Vain in the transformation
Of coldness into warmth.
Tragedy regrets
Its place to wield the pen,
Telling the place of a story
That never met its end.
Continuing forth,
Spilling secrets abound,
Surging on
With eyes that look around.
Stark sunlight,
Simplest weather
Of failure clinging to shadows,
With sadness creating these shallows
As dust settles, atop.
Modern Romanticism 