Without the reassurance of a sweet by and by,
how should I bring a frail body forth in stoic motion
towards an end it will never attend?

Return me to my valley.

Faith is a valley
where rolling hills bend like still waves;
reaching for the heavens and quitting in intervals.

These are the mountain walls of dying,
reeling down to form a divot.

Sit me in it.

With nothing left of me to steep up from the cradle I shape,
I turn to this sea and I say, "unmake me".

These hillside submissions are all a sanctuary for the battered pride
that let us idealize strife, and silence the nature which revolts against our exertion.

With my reason bending to the will of you
i'm deprived of a thing i've had a right to.

Life is now not much more than something which approaches a second one.

My beloved only living ever.