The lasting thing of death.

Love may concern itself where the heart compiled many thoughts, yet settle in a heap of disavowed content And never blame the bingeing mind who matters most to loves accord Only to flourish away throughout the darkness Like some beautiful black and open rose

In some form of substance Like a tear, to target one's face in knowing gesture To be that clown barely laughing, yet parts of sanity compiles with insanely figurative voids, if a useful decision To become a foundation of hope where love lay still Vowing to master the coursing waves and rife the sun, but hold its glory in sweating palms

To coexist with the memory of unified communications Where love was not that beating thing of living But the lasting thing of death

While all the matter at hand Throughs caution to the eye And beholder of faith Knowing hope in the light may shed the skin Of any unforgiving realm.