Ancient Roman Candle

I can't make it on my own.
What once bloomed from sunrays won't materialize in this flesh.
Trailing behind him in gardens of vines so rich,
all our friends play games and dance among wet moss and stone.
(The funeral wake.)
Every time I turn around, it's there,
the path turned bitter and cold.
Remembering you and your smallest details,
forever, in a constant state of grace,
these precious moments impressed in May's door. Oh, forgive me friend.