Modern Romanticism

Who bleeds for me,
To who forgets me?
Who causes themselves to decline
To my level?
Who waits for me
While I dine on ashes?

There is a pebble
To be hurled into a lake.
There is tall grass
Where there is fire to burn it.

I seem to have leaked
A tear to cross my cheek.
I seem to have seen
The saddest stories for my fingers to graze
Their stale pages.

Pain draws my mouth closed,
Like a curtain over the final act.
I have been worshiped
By stars without a moon
Near, for their parenthood.

Who saves me,
In my rottenness?
Who wants me,
While I have leaked blood from my wrist?

The dismembered portrait
Of a man without a name.
The atrocious beginning to the subtle ending
Has been lost in melancholy.

My eyes raise
To the falling sun,
As I bleed
Waters from my stare,
Closing storms in often bewares.