If I were to wither in death, peculiarly as your symphony…
Caressing your sweet songs.
Oh! How to know that I'll yearn for your seed of heart amongst the bitter milkweed…
To be wreathed, after the thorns I've been crowned while I breathe.
To be six feet under earth, uttering words in deep slumber.
To hear the bells ring beside my stone as I dive in eigengrau?
For in spirit yet I indulged to journey your trail…
With backgrounded hymns high and low in unison, "Ashes to ashes, dusted he be with earth"…
You laid me to rest in peace with your mourns and lowered heads.
You sing me carols of the loved Or so will i know you'll sing me the "Arms of the angel" .
Bare me palms of three stroked soil thrown with last biddings of sorrow and grief.
If only the mind knew where my life went?
Let alone be embezzled of greater revelations between my dimensions.
With pure warmth, to no sprouts of bitter in your heart.
You'll see the slab written R. I. P
Bereaved with your flowers of hue,
Laying down as every step leaves the hill in a spree.
Will your heart still skip me a beat?
Or might you as well bury the sheets?
For it's known, to long for the gone…
And take granted of the bond…
As I speak of a reverie, far from reality,
I painted my pictures blue,
To know this is far-fetched…
To know it is due.
