Modern Romanticism

Melt a frozen river
to let in another floating word
to boil you from inside.

You won’t change
when winter wanders by
to bring down
your rising flame.

It’s all smoke
without mirrors.
You’ve gone blind
to sensation.
Where wounds exist,
you rewrite them
with premature scars.

Your breath could be
a bold silver,
if you could be still
to see your pace
on its retreat
into blurred recognition.

What you are
has carried you over,
to deliver you
to the nearest wall,
to breach it,
to make a hole
to call home.