Modern Romanticism

Heavy weights
drop like a handful
of debris,
for a relief
from winter’s lasting
tyranny.

I thrash,
knowing I’ll live
exactly where I am.

I crash,
evaporating tears
that became a storm.

Walls of ice
prevent me from moving
without such spite
clinging like a parasite.

My words,
tossed like blank coins
into a river.
I’ve been dreaming
about what’s next.
Nothing enters in,
on the train
of a hundred stops.

I’m a worm,
hanging onto a thread
woven from fear
for seconds I hold dear
to end with life’s
held breaths.