the crest of love, is neither
a bed, or a knowing;
love? love is always
a lacklustre:
a loss of attempting,
the last refrain of song;
my sweetest,
you being the remnant,
the "lost" remnant-song,
you, by kindest remark,
the remaining piano key
being played,
and lost in death,
to be remaining in
death's: pardon;
since i have my song,
i too have my word you
might utter in reply,
  and, once more,
make a weeping man:
the worthwhile creature,
with you, the trustworth
combination:
you have become,
the saddle upon the horse of death,
the ego driven life / or that of thought -
  the last & lasting -
        ever more -
        culprit of welcome
or unwelcome time -
of men tied to the tear,
as those who by crying
dare compare, or preserve...
              the remnants of man....
i keep my abode,
   as the cherished mould,
schizoid mad,
repeated countless times till the year
90 year proud....
         i have you,
and only you,
     and the acorn tree...
    my last remaining truce:
having a prison of "offence" -
my last last: loss of luck / fate;
i have you, in the least:
compared to!

death moulds the living,
more than the living past,
have assuring sentiments
to "guide with"...
  the dead are more prone to
life, than the living are more
prone to death...
and what an oddity it is,
to have become...
   but still the life with the
pristine abode, is a life
worth ascribing to,
  perhaps the last resort...
but at least a resort: nonetheless...
last man standing:
             is the first child alive;
i call it, quite simply:
                       project maldives.