Modern Romanticism

A time of need
strikes me as your plea,
your call to anguish,
your fatal rush
into disaster.

But you don’t know
what’s crumbled,
surrounding you
on the inside
with fallen flakes.

Snow’s where you walk,
treading over miles,
swimming over scenery
to betray your past.

What’s the meaning
of your safety
on your brief journeys?

Your back is turned
to the sunrise,
facing where a hand
gives your curtain.

You embrace a corner,
hiding under a layer
as dark as your void,
hanging onto tears
as your pivot
into residue.