Modern Romanticism

It’s built to be
like a shelter
for one,
to shield from rain,
from the noise
carried on the wind’s
infinite arms.

Be welcomed
into the earth’s
measureless depth,
its moldable darkness,
beneath where faces
feed you
their residue.

Our teardrops
are more like melted snow,
instead of the rain
from dark clouds.

Your response
to our cold sadness
comes as a memory
entwined in minds.

These times are born
from the frost,
from phantoms
that haunt,
reminding heated hearts
this occurred before.

It’s a simple encore,
the reuse of a tragedy
as a dirge,
a dire melody
that enchants the lost.