Modern Romanticism

How else does it go,
when promises are left
to rot under snow?

Who’s there to turn to,
when eyes are blinded
by frozen droplets?

I am fossilized,
left to be found
by hands that sift,
by hearts that lift
an imprisoned soul
from its iron shell.

I let go of the state,
because my arms burned,
after my fate flowered
within disarray.

I drank only when
it had been my turn
to become numb
when it came back.

In complete defeat,
I’m left on a cross
to warn others away.

I’m left as a sign
to not go where
one won’t return.