Modern Romanticism

Freeze our growth,
beyond falling snow.
There are grains
smaller than flakes,
quicker to spread
than ashes.

Underwater,
drowning sends
our reflection
to the surface.

Underneath,
surrender is a soft,
colorless cushion
where we sunk.

Our former garden
claims disaster
to be its last palette,
to be where it draws
a lack of inspiration.

We were not
meant to be where
fireflies illuminate,
love terminates
coming doom.

A fever lights the way
for all of our final steps,
retreating from quakes
into aftershock.