Water at the field,
while eyes scream their sentiment.
I can breathe,
force the wind against you,
while your lids lift
as shutters from the winter storm.
You are worn in my weather,
bleeding from remaining tulips
as the petals have dried
with frost upon your lips.
Final form, branded together
in the song of defeat.
Held close, at our feet
are the roots that have been smothered
to become ash, leaving seeds.
Burned flesh, rising sun,
winter was never a feather
apart from you.
With love, at its grace
having you as another drop
from the wick,
another tear from the wax,
draining the night.
Folded hands, dyed eyes
with red staining the ground
where you slept,
continuing to dream
for something beyond this scene.
Modern Romanticism 