Modern Romanticism

A year, forward
with painted letters
dissolved into smears,
laced with tears.

All of them, delicate
in their storied approach
into the next year
where details are similar.

I face the folds,
trace the seconds
back to their epiphany.

I am naked where I go,
holding on, while it snows
a shower from the gray.

There are paces
being memorized,
as there are pages
never to be rewritten,
when surroundings
are this frozen.

It has acquired me,
just as it relinks me
back to what’s known
about vows being driven
in senseless sensation.

I picture some form
of acute serenity
as a scene where I want
footprints of mine to fall,
to carve their presence
in an ocean of dust.