Pilgrim's Progress

We need great golden copulations in the cemetery
 bury your head beneath the limbs in part of a ghostly resolve
 perhaps this was the path Brother Lawrence tred alone
 underneath the interpass of denial of speculation

 we have nursed path each quatrum with a deafening blow
 to stand in one accord to each other as pilgrims rest after harvest time
 Apple butter jam spread on fresh home made bread
 the reflections of a timid squirrel on a limb

 we have become immeasurable by your smile
 she danced in a ring of fire yet throws of each challenge with a shrug
 the cost of the pilgrims progress we shall never know
 bust up the beat to promote its tempo

 a beacon of light to a much hurting world in search of love
 Does death hurt you the most or is it fear
 beneath the timeless swell I live to tell
 sought through the variation to its cosmic flame