Cross

Should I have thrown the sky into the sea
Gone racing for the water in a lake of mirror waves
And promised that the effigy I burned
Was never what I promised it should be
Where fingertips are mausoleums in a world of graves
With stoic gaze, should I have never turned

To face the sun I swore to watch decay
A penny in between my fingers blotting out the moon
Embracing every spurious eclipse
As testimony to a better day
That tapers like a candle that I burned before it’s noon
To hide the tombs upon my fingertips

Should I have chased the sea into the sky
Gone flying over chasms that would only spiral down
And told myself that plummet means ascend
That living is the epithet to die
And breathing is the prize that I deserve for being drown
When death I duly found and surely penned

Upon a page that purges any ink
And leaves me a reflection that is surely just as blank
Should I insert the memory of loss
Between the vivid sights of every blink
Deposit them as coins into a vacuum of a bank
And mouth the words of thanks as I obsequiously craft another cross

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