What disallows
this open heart
from closing?
Have I not
breathed enough
while astir?
When will I
discover a remedy
amid another
dying day?
Pain paints
my tired complexion
in resounding darkness.
When can I
sing without wailing
in infinite nights?
Come the morning,
I am buried in snow.
I grieve,
quilted in quivers
along isolated flesh.
Come the light
from a desaturated sun,
I am burning
inside this pale rush
of a winter resolution.
Modern Romanticism 
Leave a Reply