Modern Romanticism

I tell death to
take my final fragment
as the final letter
I’ve presented to an ocean.

For too long I’ve lost
what messages I provide
to that solid colored,
open vastness.

For this one time,
there will be no more
mundane repetition.

For this last time,
I’ll be in the bottle,
I’ll be at its bottom.

I’ll sink, not float
for another life span,
merging with the void
kept in the dark.

Beneath these waves,
I’ll melt, I’ll meet
that formless space
where Hell is cold.

The scars, the stars
both fade at the same
expected moment.