the softest winds make ruin of ruins,

like a shadow cast upon a shadow,

a flurry of sparks, steel and chrome,

and we breathe no more.


the softest falls make ruin of our bodies,

a most beautiful bitter work of art,

a flurry of blood, bone and bile,

and we breathe no more.


the softest whisper can beguile the soul,

inhibitions, memories and ambitions,

lost in the arcology of generational symmetry,

and we breathe no longer


the softest touch can mend a broken spirit,

bring light to the corridors behind these eyes,

now opened to a mind lost within them,

and bring breath once more.


the softest embrace speaks for a fierce one,

a kiss of ease where illness had wrought,

the sickness comes spilling out,

and we breathe in unison.


bodies will fall to ruin,

whispers will be forgotten,

but our love stands eternal,

the way we hold our hearts.