Who goes,
there? Who reenters?
Where? Are you there,
hearing me mourn,
noticing me wilt,
stuck on my thorns?
I am reusing
my familiar tragedy,
holding my head
in helpless hands.
I reach for eternity
to bring back the void,
tugging on dark threads,
as love’s famed sickness
plays dirges for the dead.
Burning. In these waters,
I am drowning upon sights,
letting winter disguise me
in harrowing white,
because I cannot conquer
what love has left me with.
Modern Romanticism 