Hold tight, as fate was not meant
to be yours, where the sea
transfers your lullaby
to the sky.
Upon these rocks, an ocean finds
your departure, your expanse.
Broken and boarded
upon the vessel that carries you
through streams from cuts,
from eyes being shut.
Walk from this world,
to the next that departs
without an oar to hold,
without a hand
to bring you back.
You were miles without,
whiles within.
A distance without time,
to stand still, or walk
adjacent to the beauty
that keeps falling
from those burning trees.
Everything that you are not
becomes simple,
held upon the spot your tears
had collected.
Some sound, somewhere where joy
and grief, intersect within faint belief
that eyes were never
the same, when tearstains
would go gray.
Modern Romanticism 