Modern Romanticism

What’s left to know
while being blinded
under falling snow?

I’m left to see
what’s become of me,
hoping for the rest
to get redressed,
to be the lasting excuse
to look the other way.

I don’t want to believe,
while I can hope to
crawl back to the past,
having an ocean
as a dragging weight
around broken feet.

I’ve been crying for miles,
knowing nothing
of what I’ve been carrying
upon this trail,
disgracing all sense
of coming hope.

What’s left to view
In this curtain of fog?
I live with the regret,
one that repeats where I
realize that I did not
stop to understand.

I’m doing more
to bring ropes forward,
instead of what they
have trapped.

A heart has gone gray
in the aftermaths
of all passing days.