Lachrymose Poem by Ella Veyes

He is the lucidity,
That I cannot attain.
The dreams I can’t remember,
But haunt me all the same.

My immortal lacuna,
I’m already dead.
He’s not my resurrection,
But my birth from silhouette.

My cracked lachrymal,
Within it; a suffering sea.
My unaware martyr,
That'll never quite save me.

My morose optimism,
The hope that time will numb.
Though as each second intensifies,
My love, let each second come.