Chandeliers and trimmed trees bring
tears like an ever flowing stream.
Igniting the path to a tragic past
where the moon ceases to beam.
Delicately carving the lines on the
hands that once fed a deal of pleasure
that is of no longer use to me, thank you, my treasure.
Tiptoed to a monastery, with a familiar face
that exceeded my momentum
whom withheld a coin on a string from his septum.
"Buongiorno, buongiorno! From warm descendants!"
treated me with a surplus of respect.
Time will speak, and time has said,
the archangels have failed to resurrect.
Funerals for tales of a tragic past in full cortège, my forever white gold,
Believing time will remain my loyal friend
as long as my foe is the old