Forlorn, I tread forsaken of benevolence and lost to the sympathy of grace. By turn, each day, longer the next, yet still in missing of you.
Supine, in reflection of heaven, I cast eternal my body to the stars. I give not myself to death, but breathe in sanctity of peace and drift endless the plains of elsewhere.
As comes each moment, idle by darkling hour, I know not shadow, but walk amidst light – Sweet, these floral pastures, in purge of crimson, while washed in tides of green …
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