AtLast_[07]

In that glow, we glean From fields we've never sewn Yields of pleasure's fire thrown In play as vapors drift astray. And When, spent, our shadows call Watch them lift For who we are becomes the gift. Rest your head on my lap. Drowse as whispered snaps Of what's spent Sparks away. Should we care That we have never really loved, Till now?

Sustaining fire is reached As older ash is breached. Inflamed of love And care expended, Ill fated memory Is Ended.