Born into those brittle flakes.
Inside shelter, where all such dust
attempts to intrude, while I have
remained here to elude
what melts into tears
beneath a morning’s sun –
another infant above those clouds,
granting warmth to quivering palms.
Another face, born into a different day
while time has frozen where I stay.
Another light, screaming
to keep me calm. Another child
whose face of light,
of carefree innocence
implores to lead me
outside of ignorance.
Outside, it snows.
Flakes are brightened
into sparks of flame.
Within, this silence grows,
while water slows
to becoming sheets of ice,
fertile for reflections,
sterile for resurrection.
I have left miles behind,
burning this vision white,
with faded eyes, being blind
to this tragic, stagnant outcome –
holding hands with a pale flag,
as a captain to a sunken ship.
Modern Romanticism 