‘Twas hubris, my soul had brought,
left in flames, in tenured wrought,
and ne’er priv’leged to wiser thought,
now singed with roses on my grave.
That I, in dying, had made no sound,
not with angels, for none came ’round,
as I fell, wingless, to hallowed ground,
my passing marked in nameless stave.
So, here I lie, unalterably e’er still,
without pain, nor breath, nor will,
but aware of this darkening thrill,
and all for love my soul ne’er gave.