Modern Romanticism

Lost upon
trails of ice,
coated in your pale,
burdening apathy.
I couldn’t tell,
in having eyes fused shut,
who wrote your pages.

They were once
whiter than snow.
They have remained
more stilled than death.
In closing that book,
I have begun to float,
I have begin to look past
those tattered sails
that guided our ship.

Although, your face,
your presence still burns
thin threads, into an image
I cannot smother with earth.

I would love to bury
your storm, from those skies.
But you keep rising up
to take the sun away.

You encompass all memories
in a mind, decorated in your clouds.

You have made your identity
as that one who runs ahead,
with these tides, bringing a quake
to feet, walking upon your shadow.