This construct is in sight

Our rusted cages sadly sway, some second close,
some far away,
Bitter breath that blows between, now heard my voice,
my dance, unseen,

And this, my corpse, which I forgot,
I hold,
between two broken fingers.

My palms meet in morbid prayer, communal love,
communal fair,
For it is time, and he has risen, alone he walks,
in lonely wisdom,

And though your heart may wish it not,
he hangs, aloft,
between two broken fingers.

We are alone, my desert flower, "don't, not yet!"
no not this hour,
For what it was and now lays dying, cannot go on,
cannot keep crying,

And you, my friend, who I must kill, I leave you now
so you may end,
O! spiteful thing, that we must die, and still we dance,
still. . . we try,

And you, my heart. . .

you shall someday stop your beating,
my tiny life, crushed,
between two broken fingers.