Sestina.

He asks him to take his hand
And lead him to the quiet,
And the shelter, and the peace
Of the non-existant minutes
Falling off the planet as we speak
Into apocalyptic finality and joy.

He speaks of this everlasting joy:
Of lips touching, and also a hand,
That claps onto everything awful they speak
And renders it calm and quiet.
Together they sit for endless minutes,
And dream of nothing but serenity and peace.

Regretting a lack of said peace
Would seem foolish, and devoid of joy,
And would give weight to the minutes,
And drown the silence, and shatter the steadfast hand.
Instead they praise their quiet,
And love, hope, and humor is all they speak.

In fact, these things they speak
Are those that do exist and form their own peace.
These things are anything but quiet
And resound and echo and scream with joy
At the reunion and the joining of the hand
With the other after thousands of separate minutes.

And when there is nothing left but minutes,
Nothing left to do and nothing left to speak,
All that they will have is his hand in his hand
To offer some solace and peace.
If all is certain and solid, they'll have the joy
To take with them into the deep deep quiet.

Forever falling into the perpetual quiet
Will be nothing next to exuberant minutes
Spent vomiting laughter and cleaning up joy
And knowing there is no need to thank or speak,
Just a need to absorb the sonorous peace
And grasp your lover's hand.

In the quiet, they do not speak,
But, as minutes pass, he takes his hand,
And joy floods cities and they are taken over by peace.