We two are left:
I with small grace reveal 
distaste and bitterness;
you with small patience
take my hands;
though effortless,
you scald their weight
as a bowl, lined with embers, 
wherein droop
great petals of white rose, 
forced by the heat
too soon to break.

We two are left:
as a blank wall, the world,
earth and men who talk, 
saying their space of life
is good and gracious, 
with eyes blank
as that blank surface
their ignorance mistakes 
for final shelter
and a resting-place.

We two remain:
yet by what miracle,
searching within the tangles of my brain,
I ask again,
have we two met within
this maze of daedal paths  
in-wound mid grievous stone, 
where once I stood alone?