In this sleep, brought on
by the snow.
Each corner, we weep,
driven low.
Playing the harp in the cold,
staying the heart on its old
Journey among frost
and loss.
Situate, instigate
tides of nocturnal wrath
to keep the fever.
Oceans come, hands will leave,
after the first wave.
Recession
in this stage, regression
to the page.
Becoming still, the story
that buried those eyes
behind a curtain.
Blind in the soft
of snow.
Make way for oceans,
bleeding our old smiles along.
Create a path for
sickly motions.
A pretense, an absence, a lie
caught red-handed
in the wash, upon heavy eyes –
beneath the immaculate sand.
Modern Romanticism 