We face death as we know,
Written in facets of stone under our feet,
we have built or own demise
, the weight of ourselves holding
us to that blue undertow,
as we sink into our black euthanasia.

Oh wind,
You are a fickle thing,
You bring tidings of a chill
That can be resolution, absolution
Or anything in between.

Oh wind,
You are a gracious host,
Whose cruelty is unmatched
In your gift of mirth and hope.
Your wildest gusts are mild
To the coldest misanthrope.

Providence is coming, and it comes fast.
A black sheet of rage, an edifice of wrath,
As your tolerance reveals it's foulness last,
and your acceptance will becoming your death.

Your subversion of nature, your neglect of the past,
has led you from the righteous path.

Oh? But what wandering eye?
You curse me so still?
I have given you my dignity, my chastity, my love and my hate.
Why must you demand?
These shackles you hold around my feet,
They are frigid, fickle... Frugal.
Surely I am not to blame! Surely, surely!
Oh, but wandering eye,
You have outlasted all, you have tainted all in your cruel excitement.
You are my well-lived enemy

Oh, but so fair, oh but so tall, and oh,
How you vitiate my love and loves!
Oh, how you have bound many before you!

What flickering excitement you bring, and what black ruin you warrant.

In that synagogue
That was my home,
I buried myself
Like pieces of Rome
Forgotten by many
But mostly myself,
They made me
Put my heart on a shelf

When they strip you of yourself,
And tear you down,
For the sake of "growth"
And the sacred ground
To expand their nation or self-hating
Fools
And continue their selfish dialogue
Of riches and jewels

When I stood behind her
In that mirror in her room,
We made a handsome coupling,
Just to us, or one, or two.
I loved her quiet beauty
And how she held herself.
I loved how she was whole,
And how she walked
With an unsure ease.

I miss her.