The morning of the loves demise is the singing of the part touching the sky,

almost over the top of the horizon and on the mountain of sigh its such a sight,

the valley on the waters bay without the bridge to interrupt the comfort for the gift,

I am at the apron of hugs coming from the suns rays.

Its titles width of tossing years to the Millions on the theme,

Plato must have seen the same horizons as I,

with his eyes embrace deep in his marrow,

head to the sorrow,

the spice of life that falls to society must be the lies or sheep,

that is the ground of the burial,

a winter on the season of the twin flames creed.

Down the feather flight to remember the cold November,

the date on the day of the troubles that fifth degree,

forms of such sadness ate scars,

the groove of a new bone.

My skull screamed from the pain on the spring of divine,

I felt the hurt pour from my veins to the pools of swollen eyes,

my cheeks could not know a smile as the chorus of my cry,

the rattle of reminders rinsed anchor,

it began to core my self to grain.

The sands rolled with the ocean,

the lakes spoke in soft prose,

water shored to print my foot on earth,

the hand of grace must envelope my song.

I found that the dial of memory roared to details,

the written review brought a ladders blink,

that tire of the screech Owl hoots for my die,

at the moment of said I tore heart from the base of the tone.

I stride in the sake of making the journey,

I heard the call to arms and responded by tide,

the charts were navigated,

the stars showed me the twilights sparkle on the shimmer of a bay.

Sorrow fell to the rings of an Oak Trees breadth,

the burl holding a thousand understands to each bark,

the structure of the trunk stands with sturdy frame as the boughs hold gravity to shade:

Alas the sun came to lily brooks lane!!