Scarce the echoes of time forget the love of poet and a poet’s love –
Thru tragedy and deep regret, the poet’s pen can rise above,
but never the life of poet.
Time comes in waves oe’r loamy sand and calls to generations caught,
drives the pen and ink from hands of some whose lives in same are fraught.
Their heartfelt lays do show it.
Burns or Brooke or Browning’s hues,
Dickinson, Carey in Shakespeare’s shoes,
these lives in anguish spent.
Even Lincoln knew the woes
of moments lost to moment’s foes
that deny the love there meant
and expressly tuned by God for them.
Sadly scribed in history’s page or lullaby counted in binding guild,
recalling moments of true love found, realized and left as unfulfilled,
so left their goblet’s depth un-stemmed.
“Roll me over, roll me over”, decried their leaving gasp,
“That I may chance to find this love, again, before this earth is passed – “
So tightly clasped onto each breast, the wilting rose of hope,
that prays for histories’ echoed waves and dreams to catch and galvanize hope
of love denied eternal.
Tho’ truth’s defined in years autumnal of poets’ passing lives,
it’s future loves be summed in one all and not denied in death bed sighs –
For a poet’s life is vernal.