When your shrine of Death kisses and weeps,
It bows that death of stream with washes of rapt echoes,
When exclaimed, the vaults of sorrow through valleys ago,
I should again be silenced by eidolons where no dream reaps,
Where no dream wallows in the grown, endless shift that tailed
Fires through some old stone, and then there are the fragile
Shrill moonlit winds that were dull through Death’s soul,
And the quiet utterance that’d accede the stream of wish,
Only to have it gone and lost as the dying day,
And what should we say? We’ve been across shuddering seas
Of wilted tears—and this is where we are lost.
And we are lost. We are one.

And when the lakes had calmed through wandering memory,
And aye! It should be minded, not yet remembered
As the darkly winds present, do you lay against it,
As the waters collect pennies that grew off of wishes,
Do some, do some make wishes of love, of hope?
(I know I once did)
Rife from the touch of the heart that shadows—
That dim the lone, darkly winds that passed beyond us again,
I think of that voice, softly, of regret.
Stirred by the darkly wind—and yet another day,
Does the wind protest, does it dare?
And the wells were down again,
With rays of dreams to death,
With rays of love to express,
And with a breath, it is shadowed by growing
Faint, sweet winds that pass through the day and light,
Dim by notches, death by light,
Laid awake for hours with the lamp-light,
For darkness was dripping a kind,
That which kissed estuaries into shined moons
That would gleam and seek for nightly bounds,
And they’d accede into the waves of stars
That’d beg to be wished upon past, and I turned,
The night passes through,
In this little room… in this little room…

Coldly as the utterance that cried through the raise
Of sheer, sheer bloodied branches of the sea,
The wrathful glim that ticked a bit against light,
Where the unlit room was cold again, and the cruelty was
With these airs of darkness, thatched death of day,
Was it wind? Was it the wind?
And it was gentle against the moon
And it waned through sleep and it passed through sleep…

Dreams were gone by frail moans of tumult starving winds,
Where the birth of silent shores never doubted
As the shines of valance took to the cool…
Do the waves profess their moans of love,
Their softened waves that laid against crests, shining, washed away,
That had been soared through the clean tumult?
But I’d know that I’d love, and I loved,
Each moment with its summons of waft
That parted deathly seams, those sweet shades
Admired by the birth of waves that curled
Afar at the blest cried of shrines through love.
And even of death—those hemming ends that drift
Through wandering rivers above dread—above our heads,
And by nature’s daughter, came the light blush of shore,
Where it was passing vernal tides—and they flickered
That you’re still with shadows in this little room… in this little room…

I’ve seen the deep labyrinth that coalesced the tears
The hours departed before; does the sweet breath that withers
The dead thorn be casted into epoch of post, lasting cold
That became lone in the hilly vales of the night that mourned?
An air of thyself was gone and lost through the days,
And may it be that the restless sound that glared
The winds be as good as to the shore and feeble waves
That would wash the light taps of sweet cries.
Why does the wind cry? And why is it lost through parting ages?
United by the bliss and into rays, darkening,
Was the washed shore that reached now,
And the dusk that fell afterwards, oft, long from the aloof sun
That’d make waters the color of dun and as the silent shivers
From crevices in smoke that passed our stars and their sons
Willed by life and of death.

Alone, they are one, with a shrine of love
That streamed with silent washes, unborn,
With pause from the wind
That gave life and death, lost.

When your shrine of Death kisses and weeps,
It bows that death of stream with washes of rapt echoes,
When exclaimed, the vaults of sorrow through valleys ago,
I should again be silenced by eidolons where no dream reaps,
Where no dream wallows in the grown, endless shift that tailed
Fires through some old stone, and then there are the fragile
Shrill moonlit winds that were dull through Death’s soul,
And the quiet utterance that’d accede the stream of wish,
Only to have it gone and lost as the dying day,
And what should we say? We’ve been across shuddering seas
Of wilted tears—and this is where we are lost.
And we are lost. We are one.

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