Lift me up, birds of praise,
I'm sinking in the spaces
of this unholy void.
She twirls with her lace,
and momentarily paces,
this cemetery is wired
if our passion builds a fire,
hidden in darkest grit soils.
Elementary of the passion
we even forget our names,
as our eyes staked to claim
awkwardly drawn together,
so newly shyly terrifying,
if the spark wasn't mystifying
lady bugs kissing on feathers