Between the lines
Run black in sorrow's book,
Come; call deaths binding,
And make the story.

Do you think I should not want this?
Then come, rush relief,
On this tired sickle man
That is draped on my bones.

Having lost what was loved, and let go
Loose this sinew from its mortal grip.
And if it's love-
Then let come, and find return,
To unearth what is below.