Eyes of different colours meet
A heart that beats in sync with no conceit
Laboured breath, a sword and sheath
A place to rest my tired feet.

A message poorly written, tapped
Pupils once closed dilate
Minds so alive no longer sedate
Shortcuts taken, never on time but never late

Grapes on a vine crushed to make wine
So does the labouring sun shine
A breath of yours, A breath of mine
A subtle crescendo and a steep decline.

A tarnished sword and withered sheath
Nevertheless a place to rest my tired feet.