How can I write in recline?
A man died, awakened and defied.
That niche of desolation,
thriving on our tear's dive.
From rosy luxury,
crafted in his treasury.
Hands intransigent,
yet so evasive
to worldly sight.

However one thinks,
he knows and depletes.
A spoutful tongue's sting,
and naive young's swing,
to darkness delievered to eternity.
Singing overreaches breaching
their attentive ears, so overjoyed to hear.
Sanctuaries of Please
for the price we rarely perceive.

That was paid
on a good Friday.
With winds drying
his hands.
With his heart in
my hands.

I dissembled the door,
burned the locks,
and salvaged myself.
Before the wood burned soft.