Modern Romanticism

Winter’s binding
has taken on a shape
for your place,
to seek truth
in unfounded scorn.

The sun awaits,
while you writhe
with failure’s weight
blooming dark,
on your blistered,
ivory shoulders.

That ledge
you’ve grown close to
begs for you to reflect,
hopes for you
to select
a better outcome.

Isolation’s wrapped you
in cold frost,
gets you to wail
when you should
instead set sail.

Reveal your face
from inside two curtains.
Dig yourself out
from bottomless ruin.

There’s always more
than what you value
in what you abhor.