The week beginning
The seventh of the tenth
Twenty thirteens from my final death

Wings clipped now, time is done
Madness has manifest
straight after sweet love

Scouring the undertow
dusky and dusted
I dream of the willow
pure yet untrusted

I envision a broken halo
charred, shattered and rusted;
utterly finished, diminshed
as if we have never lived

All this respect we had claimed and craved
Caught our fire and went up in frames of flames

And the lie that called us all to see
Eye to eye has fallen three degrees

So if you hear the sound of my voice again,
then know I'm three thirteens, awaiting death