A burial. You are my tomb. My place, in the world, is forsaken. Upon you, I will rot, decay and slumber. In your arms, I am lost. I do not heal, for I am lost.
I have always burned a trail for my feet to carry me. I have executed innocents, for the sake of my path. I did not look over my shoulders, to see their shoulders. To see the weights pressed upon them, I did not look. I did not wish for, in my time of pain, to see theirs. On my path, I went straight to your arms. In them, I last little more then a petal without its parent corolla. Though, I will die, treated by your last kisses.
I contemplate over my endless end. It is just a second more, though it is infinite. A pallid reckoning that sweeps me, as you do, gently to its reverse, in force. The love of you, attempts to bandage me. I cannot be bandaged, as I cannot be healed. Look at me, like an infant, aborted. Release me, as though you never loved me. Leak me out of you, like something to forget.
Draw me in the sand, though let the winds sweep the dust away. Place a curtain atop my demise, to then set a fire upon it. Let me not be known to you.
Diseased, as I am, living in times so natural to me. Loving you, as you love the dead.
You are weeping. Tears exit your eyes like dewdrops hanging from the ends of grass-blades. How many dreams must imagine themselves, for you to set your own path? Could you lose yourself on another mile, upon another extensive cloud?
Cross yourself as ivory in the dirt. Make yourself the purity that becomes known, to the world among its filth. Lift yourself. Send yourself, and do not look over your slender shoulder to see me, wasted in the wreckage.
You are the pathless angel, who must discover a course with your wings. Find utmost certainty away from me. Help the devils, driving empathy into them as a nail.
Modern Romanticism 