You shelter Yourself, beneath your own rain. Your eyes have their own clouds, Burning waters to fall upon your face Marred from lucid terror. Beauty Has rained like fallen flesh, Like burning limbs Over your ashen, skeletal form. I am the man Who can hold your hand For a thousand more years Upon this land. Like waters, You walk with a soft pace, The softest gait To your flesh, in the marble, In the snow. Your chest Is a place to where I shall nest My incomplete self.