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The coins rest deep in the wells of my eyes, placed gently there after |
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I died. It's a small penance |
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I'm willing to pay for my fare, my fate, escape. |
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But what beauty and grace will remain as our ruins, or relics, or names? |
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They're all constants that stand to remind of what quickly passes by. |
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As we quit the shore, |
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I survey the graves; rows of old stones, unevenly paired, princess with thieves and lovers apart. |
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So where shall |
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I lay? With you? |
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Alone? The storm is now pressing its weight on all sides as it plunges its nails into pine. |
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The tall waters will wash us away. |
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For now, forget, erase, and leave nothing behind whence we came--no ruins, nor relics, nor names, nor anchors to hang in the tides that slowly still unwind. |
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But we rest assured we're safe in our graves. |
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With faces upturned, we look to be saved, but the rustling of soil will slowly subside and quietly die. |
