Thus so again I stand before
the gates of my dear old friends,
a wordless song for the days afore
the glory of your perfect cadence.
Gently the pastel airs enshroud
our peace from all mortal affairs;
as we pace o’er the earthly cloud
under a golden chandelier.
Through a lyrical haze I recall
flowers and fences above my grave;
sighs of your virtues and my fall,
in white letters the paths they pave.
In crosses the skeletal trees they guard
our sins beneath the livid air –
the troubles of a fleshly heart
in romances of the silence we share.
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To thyself be true my friend