Come to me
when my lips are nigh to bleed.
The metal stingeth,
seeking the consolation of thy skin wintry.
I’ll take thine hand serpentine
and rest upon the scales of thy back.
Thee I’ll hold tight
and keep company ere I depart for war.
And thou shalt remember me by.
I’ll be the ghost of the cardinal’s song,
and the splashed crimson flow on thy walls galore –
a morsel tenderness and a wrath ceaselessly enthralled;
for if thou drawest a sun for the rest of thy life,
as well thou drawest one for the rest of mine.
Persevere and to thy being thou be truthful
in honour of the memory of her,
whose soul thee loved once for thyself.