Modern Romanticism

Warmer weather
compels me to look up.
It invites me to see
that words, that prayers
were always meant
to become worms,
to eat your form,
beneath a sea
of stones.

I will keep coming
back to this space,
leaving nothing
as the faintest trace.

I swim, within a world
where fire exists only
in a heart, having warmth
as a cruel uncertainty.

Winter was what
kept me looking down,
past a frown,
onto lingering thorns
near dried rose petals.

I wore a kind of shade,
being the loudest clash
against the snow.

I wore myself,
living for those breaths
I swore to not let go.

In the cold,
when I exhale,
I see you through
the silver cloud,
telling me to keep
my tearful eyes
looking up.

In warmer weather,
under a hell-born fever,
am I ever getting better
with nothing more
to be severed?