We need great golden copulations in the cemetery
bury your head beneath the limbs in part of a ghostly resolve
perhaps this was the path Brother Lawrence tred alone
underneath the interpass of denial of speculation
we have nursed path each quatrum with a deafening blow
to stand in one accord to each other as pilgrims rest after harvest time
Apple butter jam spread on fresh home made bread
the reflections of a timid squirrel on a limb
we have become immeasurable by your smile
she danced in a ring of fire yet throws of each challenge with a shrug
the cost of the pilgrims progress we shall never know
bust up the beat to promote its tempo
a beacon of light to a much hurting world in search of love
Does death hurt you the most or is it fear
beneath the timeless swell I live to tell
sought through the variation to its cosmic flame
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