Fire the kiln, the denude is frozen over,
By selfless depletion of my soul,
Making new as the Sunday rises,
Under a watching eye, loathsome of false idols,
I dare to admonish you to the world,
As you are mine, a worshiped statue,
Standing tall above the shimmering sea,
Of all else, my love, the hourglass fractured,
Every notion lost in the sediment's mixture,
Emotion spilt across a masterpiece,
Woven from thread of tear and sweat,
And I die for you trove of imperfection,
Allure ever-lasting the tides of Poseidon,

And for this I cry?
Underneath a bed of thorns I hide,
To steal a glimpse of your beauty from shadows beneath,
I'm drowning, my pool of pensiveness overflowing,
My arms bound, setting me free,
And for this I cry?
No, but for this feeling, I die.

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