Modern Romanticism

It might be as soldiers pray,
upon their knees, offering devotion,
in those sentences of designation,
upon that moss-covered stone
that whispers within wind.

It might be, as we say
that our dreams were rusted,
destined to be an idleness,
leaving color under an ocean,

staving connection
in its vastness of loneliness.

Upon its surface,
I see your reflection
bringing me close.

Nestled in your memory,
I am bleeding until dry,
unable to survive.

It can only be,
when I am surrendering
to your moon before my sun,
that I am letting go, of a descent
of a million flakes of snow.