My back is pressed and panicked against the roof,
Ribs wrenched open,
And the painted glory of this worshipped house,
Is lost to me.
My love is weeping itself onto this congregation,
and I can't feel my body,
I can't feel my laboured breath,
Struggling with my pride,
Not to collapse,
Boneless, onto those I silently promised to hold up.
I bring these swollen eyes square.
And beyond the tear stained haze,
there she is.
A manicured smile, stretched across her face,
and her grey skin gives away, a coldness, that I just can't bare.
Her passion has abandoned this vessel,
and that warmth gone is what renders this
void left, so frigid and lifeless.
Life less the living, and the sun will still rise.
This layer will outlive us all I think,
and forever is a tale for the priests, poets, and prophets.
So shut it all down, and cry with me.
Let us grieve, for the rest of our lives in sad concert.
For there is only small comfort,
and in time, like the flowers that hug her casket,
shall they return to the earth, to grow anew.
This may be the end of your path,
but it is not the end of the world.
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