Sunshine or gold on a family urn
is a hue hard to hold, so I just stare.
How far did I come to have my brass turn?
Seventeen courtyards, with a cross to bear.
Beyond the churchdoors, she straddles the stairs.
The wind doesn't roar, the branches don't wave—
I am grounded with woes, leases and cares.
All of my kingdom for a little grave
where the happy pair are the fair and brave.
The grass is greener and the sunlight floods.
Nobody needs more, nobody needs saving.
The morning is sweet, but love tastes of blood.
And we are just weaving and she is just
heaving and headstones are fevered with rust.