Warmest leaves,
Aflame in the Autumn’s entrance.
Coldest lips
That were once radiant with life.
I look upon the cross
To see a different man in the same reflection,
A sacrifice without meaning.
One loss with tears, too many
To count with the endless leaves,
All meant to crumble.
Those lips,
That with the cold rocks on the moon
Fell into immaculate white.
No color left
While sceneries slept.
Kiss what remains,
While I begin to dream
For a different tomorrow
When we still shine,
Without flame against our limbs.
Blood drawn
Against cracked lips,
While life slips
Down the trickling causeway.
A reflection where there can be
No resurrection.
No funeral
For a man whose cross
Matches neither hands nor feet.
No blood, soon
When even the sun forsakes.
Modern Romanticism 