In time,
and onward through space,
there’s a way beyond:
a masterpiece
and it is bolder.

In line
with a fall from grace
there is a heartache,
unerring still,
and we’re all older.

I’m fine,
despite my sad face.
Theirs is fake and white;
brushed and vibrant.
Within; they’re colder.

With wine,
we’ll win this sweet race
there and grow to kings.
In a graveyard:
“Onward, Christian soldier!”