Beatrice

my lips,

sad pilgrims,

a pair of splendors—

pushed close

for you.

 

my heart

a church

meekly

founded

on Earth

for you.

 

and at your grave,

in a basket will go,

a placed-prayer

etched on paper,

hurried down

for you.

 

the basket will remain,

forever idle,

by stone,

but dusty-true,

a dream to be discovered—

found—

someday,

by an angel—

just like you.

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s