Bleached lips. White eyes.
Deadness, in under a heartbeat,
upon hearing that signal –
a voice, a distant shrill,
that it is too late to let me know
before blood was revealed in snow.
I have a letter
being blocked of its return,
from higher degrees
of intimate temperature.
All that you felt
hand-written, in the sadness
both of us did melt
pledging us, deep into underwater.
Within white clouds,
clarity was believed
to be a certainty.
Back to snow.
To all, before understanding
came to know.
Back to monochrome,
among drifting clouds.
There is nothing to sift through,
tossing a mind within white sheets,
surrounded by white walls.
To be drafted, in this senselessness,
to shape a cold emptiness,
molding it from great streams,
torrents that rush along –
to capture the most beautiful,
meaningless words,
and suffocate both of us,
within identical scars,
those surrendering horizons.
Modern Romanticism 