[Decided to make a thread here for my recent poems.]
My flame low, frail as foam,
We made a change of hateful acreage,
Bitter course which I was bound
To: trim the wick or quench the embers,
Quick to cut the candle down
And I would be your psychopomp
And you would be my ward
And I would guide you through the night
To what we’re heading towards
And I would be your rescuer
The one to clasp your hand
And lift you off the spinning rock
And clean you free of sand
Clock hands whirled like a top,
A fire died, another grew
A pair of dice through parallax,
To view from heights the chance improved
A votive candle packed with wax
And you will be my psychopomp
And I will be your ward
And you will guide me through the light,
Or what we’re heading towards
And you will be the messenger
You always meant to be
And lift me up the living sky
To touch eternity