Helpless in sight
of twinkling stars,
tasting dust,
before you’re buried,
before you go.
I want you here,
for I’d clash
with Heaven’s forces,
against Death
and its razor scythe,
but your soul
is straying
too peacefully
far from me,
into the ebony.
The night wants
what it’ll have.
I can plead,
I can hope
for nothing more.
Your blood runs
towards the sun,
to preserve
its warmth,
its color.
My world shatters
even within
dreaming sleep,
where I see
what no longer lies
beside me,
upon waking.
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