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, 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.