Modern Romanticism

Soft signs, subtle marks
merely whisper your story
to state just a tinge
of all its vividness.

I haven’t understood it,
when I am unable to,
when you are unable to
let others within.

You wilt, while this fog
tends to obscure
the glistening on a wound
you’re desperate to show.

You have prayed,
but no one answers.
You have called,
but no one is there
to hear your cries
gathered for everywhere
you want ears to be.

It’s a sound
without its scene,
keeping itself behind
to become buried
in your time.

If it’s ever visible,
you’ll be the first one
to come to know
what you were missing
when you were lost
in the snow.