Requiem for the Passion

Even in death
                                                 Time and birth,
                                                 Your mystery is benign
                                                 Carapaced by your absolute grasp
                                                 Of wizened life.

                                                
We mourn with tragic confluence
                                                 This toil you handed us to bear
                                                 Yet you and you alone know
                                                 That we are never worthy
                                                 Of your love:
                                                 Your wanton Passion
                                                 Which drives us early
                                                 To the egg shelled sand
                                                 From whence we sprung out from.

                                                 Like the approaching snail
                                                 Your shadow looms near
                                                 And here we sit
                                                 In regressed awe and silence
                                                 As we await your second coming.