Modern Romanticism

Turn to sleep.
Turn, far from me
into your whispering winds,
hearing what’s good for you
to hear, while what’s coming near
are numerous thrown rocks.

You’ll fall,
weeping your open eyes
into your shadows,
tossing in a bewildering delusion
of surrounding peace.

You want to hold close
what’s comfortable to breathe,
forgetting those sounds
of your heart,
bouncing from walls
into closets.

I am at your window,
spying a torment I know
collects like snow.

I am your witness,
living in your seasons,
your parallels,

where summer is a loneliness,
while winter is a madness.