Modern Romanticism

Borders,
a fortress of ruin
tells the time
for you, while you
let the white of winter
guide your footsteps.

Pieces of ice
reflect your history’s
earthen depravity.

For you are
a single inch away
from filling a grave.

You breathe,
while you don’t know
why your lips
are open.

You speak,
pillaging meaning
from the scars
adorning your heart.

For fatalism,
you struggle on
with a mindset
that deserts
your future’s light
for the night.