- i wish

"Would there be one, who writes of me, As I of them, in memory— In whispered lines, in verses spun, Where love is lost, yet never done. This tale of hearts shall never cease, It wanes not, nor will hope release; As dying breath clings close to air, So lives the hope, though none is there. They are no cure for wounds I keep, Yet in my pain, they lay me sleep; A gentle balm, a tender flame, In sorrow’s depth, I call their name. If thou must go, then go sincere, Return not cloaked in false veneer; For when the weeping skies betray, Oft hearts, not storms, are swept away." -