Modern Romanticism

Helplessly holding
this passing wind,
letting myself fall back
into your voice.

I have heard a word,
choosing to collapse,
wanting to come down,

fatal with the structure
of an empire, gone cold
with this love, too old.

You have said,
“Who are you,
when you are building
your presence, near to my
painful absence?”

I remember
what keeps weeping
its moments, into mine,
into my wearied sight.
You were
everything to behold,
as always someone
who turned shelter to gold.

But I am here,
crumbling to know
what’s beyond the snow.