I am humble in my love
and patient in desire,
prepared to submit old selves
to an archived sacrifice
upon your new-age pyre.

Memories turn to fertile ash
and Eden forces a bloom,
with brand new eyes and cheap red wine,
I could crack the shell
to my sun-starved tomb.

These hands have been empty
and turned up to the sky
in some anxious bid for lonesome calm;
a fettered attempt for higher states,
and a fading, sober lullaby.

O come fill them up
with something I can hold,
no dream of love but love itself;
beyond the snare of death
and all of the stories we have been told.