Honnør.

An assault rifled salute to past days of bright rays…
to the ice-cream truck and sweetened pink lemonade…
to the clouds spooned into the skies like mayonnaise…

to the people we’d naively hoped to grow into someday;
– Honnør.

A headstone held up by string and a busted spade…
from a ceremony held back in the good ol’ days…
when a priestess poured blessings inside the grave…

to the bridges we’ve buried here over the years, along the way;
– Honnør.

 

A wooden box that our four hands built from trees…
the treasures placed inside by both you and by me…
it was the fate of that box that haunts me now, you see?…

the darkness we anchored to it by burying it so deeply;
– Honnør.

 

A marksman’s dot on both of our foreheads again…
one must offer the other a last shot at another salvation…
but in spite of everything, there’s not a second’s hesitation…

the thought of “better me it be than my spirit’s dearest friend”;
– Honnør.

Honnør.

An assault rifled salute to past days of bright rays…
to the ice-cream truck and sweetened pink lemonade…
to the clouds spooned into the skies like mayonnaise…

to the people we’d naively hoped to grow into someday;
– honnør.

A headstone held up by string and a busted spade…
from a ceremony held back in the good ol’ days…
when a priestess poured blessings inside the grave…

to the pieces we’ve buried here over the years, along the way;
– honnør.

A wooden box that our four hands built from trees…
the treasures placed inside by both you and by me…
it was what happened to that box that haunts me now, you see…

the depths and darkness we anchored to it by burying it so selfishly;
– honnør.

A marksman’s dot on our foreheads again…
one of us must offer the other a last shot at salvation…
whatever it may turn out to be, there’s never any hesitation…

long-ago accepted by us both: a thought of “better me than my dearest friend”;
– honnør.