Modern Romanticism

You seek remedy
in these snows.
They're not new
for you to carve
a rewritten name,

yours, from the hourglass
to be traced at your feet.

You seek meaning
in the void, locked within
somewhere to hide,
making love to a darkness,

but you are not revealed,
unless you come out,
unconcealed and unsealed.

In blind purpose,
you dig your grave,
dip your feet
in waters that reach
up to your chin.

In that depth,
you've grown shallow
to refrain from reminding
your confused mind
of what you're rewinding.

A pain that leaves remnants,
burned photographs,
scattered debris always beneath
a reflection that's viewed
from your dark eyes.