White leaves.
Cold, fallen hands.
Watered-down eyes.
You do not want this,
even if you do.
Our different sadness
applies to you,
lost beneath
a lens of colorless red,
inside the smoke
of formless dread.
Your throat
for the bite, as your arms
run around your bare
form, with simple strands
from dark locks.
Your fingers
scrawl the message,
trace the sound,
wield the heat, inside the
brazen misery.
A selfless light
from a scorning moon.
One bleeding heart
that never stopped for day.
Winter plays
the wonder in her art,
keeps her bereft
to the wings that falter.
Mute scream
without pleasure, within seams.
A singular shadow
told her,
would scold her
outside of warm weather.
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Modern Romanticism 