No need. Most certainly,
no need to hear me clarify
where my suffering should,
most certainly should be rectified.
I weep when I cannot sleep,
letting stars fall from each evening
into cupped hands. I let another day
pass with the petals that form
at the stems within vases,
on the edge of tables
I cannot even reach.
No more. Most definitely,
there is no need to repeat
what will grant me rest in defeat.
Lay me with those uncovered.
Lay me within unsheltered earth.
Let me roam, without moving
not these wilted fingers,
nor these legs, and most importantly
the breath that kept my sails
pushed into oblivion.
For this life, in its flesh
had been a sickened vessel,
piloted only by a wearied mind,
a devil without even his Hell
to keep him warm.
I will not, as I implore you
not to force these eyes open.
Let scenery be dulled
in those valleys that fold
around this beaten, tired body.
Let me not heal
to a fallen life,
for what autumn leaf
has ever reattached itself?
Modern Romanticism 