A hand upon
all I can count on,
this heart that keeps
itself beating.
I no longer smile,
while the moon has become
the color of her lips.
I no longer cry
when autumn decays around me,
for me.
Still, this hand
remains upon this chest,
with a heart buried in sand,
a treasure of more depth
than the ocean it crossed.
While I breathe,
continue, as I implore you
to leave.
While I still hint sounds
for this barren life,
continue yourself on oars,
apart from the trail of defeat,
as you are more
than what still beats.
You, the treasure
in this unrest of duress,
should continue a road
apart from my own.
You, the most beautiful
with your starlit eyes,
sacred cries,
should not turn around, to see
a man upon his burial knees.
Modern Romanticism 