On fraying thread I clung, a near broken loser,
but remained this beggar, a still resolute chooser.

Knew regret would haunt fallen heart, not failure,
so my designs I pled of life’s oft cruel, cryptic tailor.

My letters mailed through just mystical current,
offered payment of one renewed faithful servant.

With words I composed my golden picture-
my starry night, my fiery Sunday scripture.

Dim light conjured by hope, a perilous desert oasis,
warned I sipped from mirage, no droplets, no traces.

So seven last words I spoke of love tinged with goodbye;
but gentle wind carried them then to at last merciful sky.

Frayed thread became iron ladder, my hand on top rung;
shared history still before us, our ballad yet sweetly sung.