you shall be

as you ever were and will be

that consecrated conqueror

of death.

death hath its sting absconded

and you have taken comfort

in knowing i approve

of your innermost

being

you—my filthy beacon of chaos—

conscriber of things unseen.

i have composed a symphony

of words though they

have become tarnished by

rain.

(it was raining that day—i’m sure you

remember.)

i walked through the wetness and

it conquered me—i allowed it

into my pores and into my skin

though it cannot penetrate my

thoughts or the

memory of you.

if i could stand in the echoes

of lost dreams or ride the wings

of unabashed emotions laid bare

i’m not sure i would.

i’m not sure i could

stand in the fear

of my own skin. of my own breath.

of my own reason.

that’s what i need you for.