Modern Romanticism

It has sudden snow
to paint your world
into a blank slate,
while not ever truly
covered up.

You’re just quick
to revisit a fate,
turning your clock
backwards,
constantly.

Your face
echoes continuity
in all the muscles
that lose tension
only when the snow
turns to rain.

Go ahead
to walk it off,
until the moon arrives
to drive you under.

Wake up decaying
like when you fell
into another slumber,
fading beneath stars
while treasuring
your banquet of scars.

Nothing's alleviated,
as you come out
to be the one
to have elevated
what begins to recede
back inside your void,
where pages
are written,
where screams
are reminders.