Modern Romanticism

White walls,
choosing a path
without sound,
without the wails
of a different,
unabiding location.

What will
ever will me
to stop myself
from keeping score?

I want what I
can't tell if it will
be permanent.

Being lost,
amidst the mist,
releasing a song
from clogged lungs.
Notes of despair
tell me, while I unfurl
wings in disrepair,
that I cannot
help but to rot.

I want to stop
what keeps me
from losing direction
in all directions.

Covered trails,
since snow has been
falling endlessly.

Where else can I
see myself, exploring
in this silent forest?