Modern Romanticism

White cloths
adorn her listless form,
as I sing aloud
this despair, as a dark cloud
wanders from Heaven's ruin.

Nothing would revive it,
when bitterness sounds a bell
hanging from a lonesome tower.

I am inside of it,
this heart that reuses
a winter of her passing.

Dressed in snow
that never melts,
for what would it reveal
other than cold flesh
that cannot feel?

I am, in stopped tracks
adorned in shades of black.
I see what I cannot awake,
being a form on a frozen lake.

Each hour will drift,
like mist during an evening
when my hands will sift
in emptiness and nothing.