Let my charred ribcage be a fireproof cathedral for you.
Let my canary lungs sing the choir,
Looking always through stained glass and Rose tint.
Let the magic be the memory where misery can’t reach,
A beachhead barred where the beasts can’t breach.
Barely breathing, whispered prayers bow before the altar, neither here nor there.
Let me lift you, as you have lifted me.

If I plant you a flowerbed, will you sleep well and have sweet dreams?
Will you wake up with aching brain resolved and impish grin adorned?
Will you remember every day what it is to be adored?