A different draft.
A late desertion
after seeing me tremble
in arms, not an infant.
Under rubble, not buried
under blankets of white.
My breaths, she listened
for some bare strip of hope
to lead me across that rope.
One puddle. One reflection
in her tears, not mine.
I have fled down enough rivers.
I have made empty
these arms, from enough heroes.
Cowardice became a stain.
My life, remembered, until
time withers me
as any flower against a rock.
It will not grow
when I will not flow
down a different river.
I asked her to run.
I asked her, to never
conceal those deep eyes,
with shallow sorrow.
I went ahead,
I fell down and bled.
She threw me a rose
at that last eternity
of another story closed,
another page burned,
for another head turned.
Modern Romanticism 