Be kind to me, I’m simply parched for a soft word, worn with time, but lovely all the same.
Like tattered photographs caressed with the eager hands of youth, now decaying at the edges, be the moth that draws the flame. Sweet and tender whispers, lead and guide me to that place, where voices know no silence, and darkness knows no name.
Softest witnesses behind me, lead me to the shore, where eagerly awaits the morn, and pray you stand beside me as I enter into breaking dawn.
Would that witness might be a virtue, then i’d burn before your wandering eyes.
Let the light shine from broken bodies, and flowers fall from bleeding wounds, the fragrance all around me, not decay but life reborn. Death behold your martyrs, the victories you’ve won, we’ve exploded your power in them, and cast them into the newborn sun.
A single word upon her lips is worth this bleeding razor’s kiss. A thousand deaths I’d gladly die, a thousand lives lived to the full, to extol that which we see and know.
We’ve gazed into that inner court, the sanctum of life’s pure wells, and though we see what waits us there, we laugh beneath the tolling bells. Let the falls cast upon us their endless stream, and pour wrath on us like wasted wine, that we might love our dying friend with songs to guide his rest.
Weep with me at the rising tied, and waters that wash over their chains. Join me in tears for our beloved, as we send him off, the first of many more to follow. Tremors rip through our souls, as they rip through many bodies. Stand in blessed agony, close your eyes with holy dread, and offer up a single solitary whisper for the weak and weary, who are Lord over us. It is the least such as these who are kings already among the dead come back to life.