Modern Romanticism

Angering a heart
that had salvaged your skies,
where you were running to ruin,
roaming through madness's maze.
You poured tears
through a white funnel,
burning to be
that dismal kind of infamy.

Ropes around your wrists,
my tongue that has tasted
your welcomed resentment.
I have been at your side,
to see your clarified skies
become shadowed
in your method to rectify.

What have I ever done
to see you sleep in tragedy?
Your comforts will resist
all that I have done
to keep you, from escaping
through death's door.

Winter has opened
its windows, where you have
long viewed a scene
before yourself, for yourself.
You do not describe it
well-enough, that I might
keep you from planting footprints
that the snow will cover.