In the dark,
these eyes are shut to gray.
Inside stained hearts,
there is a weight to wield
on marches, where hands shield -
faces, from the rain.
Dirges and dirt,
funerals and broken vows
to guard against pain.
Disconnect me, reconnect belief -
in the vivid hurt.
All that I grow
in gardens of bloodstained petals
is the silver cold, the malleable metal.
Silver, to the rust
of anywhere in the dust.
Silver, within the snow
with a pain, for all I know.
Changing minds, complexions frozen.
Familiar hurt, different signs
on a road with arms wide open
to where I needed to lay
in a spot, necessary to stay.
Lingering a moment more
to view the path towards the door.
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Modern Romanticism 