I wish I could feel that saintly grace,
to put an end to all that makes haste
I'll never be the glue sticking like paste
and borders of this image shall go to waste.
They mean more than the dead centred
of a soul let alight and not so warmly seared,
The winter wind is welcomed and not feared
I sleep well to chills and the thunderstorms
It'll all be destroyed before the second born.