Modern Romanticism

What is this?
You’ve been stirring
the same mixture
for your lust,
your yearning
for eternity.

Love is not a shape
for you to grasp,
when it is not what
you ever let in
without letting go,
once it begins
to snow.

The taste of ash
on your lips,
the burial of faces
in your heart
remain as details
turned away
after you recollect
their residue.

Your heart limps,
your mind is twisted
into a state
you are dancing with,
reusing sympathy
for roiling agony.

When winter draws near,
your eyes will be seen
closing through the fear,
setting with these days
you've wept under
reappearing storms.