Lift me from this dirge of life, this crumbling gothic steeple that will never be repaired, propped up on a wing and a prayer. Lift me from behind this facade of faded elegance and expose the disrepair rendered and the foolhardy gap–I cannot make it beautiful or craft it as the prophet poet who serenades us with inchoate yearnings. My future is as fallow as a battlefield from which bones have been removed to a safe house. Lift me above the wind farms of hope standing in rows on a distant horizon carving momentum from nothing. Lift me into your arms, warm, nestling, where wild grasses leave a pungent perfume before dying. Lift me and make it forever, captured under glass on which dust will gather, the silver shadow of this living skin.