O, but ahead is an alter
adoration built for you, holy
decorated in sweets fruits and fine ails,
pink velvets draped about the cave of your waste.
We spent all mourning
walking, we once excepted
an ending. You—of vein, ere,
cold and glass, pained
looking upon a life grasping for truth.
Me—of ties chorded,
no slack between a song of solitude to a lessen
in weight born alone.
Whatever the whether,
I’d have carried your wait.
Give up on what cannot be cornered and peace
together a good-bye to hymn,
brothers at the root,
if only life was fare,
but alas, I know that I sea
you. And you, finally you, rowed
ahead to meet your piece.
We need only say it allowed.
We need only say it aloud.