This is not an article about poetic form. Today I just wanted to write a poem and this came out.
I have been reflecting, this month especially, on names and words and the power they hold over us and on what is a name after the owner of the noun is gone. The only thing that matters, that truly has meaning is love, true and authentic and the only thing that remains once we are gone is love in memory.
Love’s Epitaph
There is an easy ecstasy,
a quiet and deadly peace,
in surrendering one’s own elasticity
to sit so wholly at the feast.
Call it good, call it sin,
call it what you need
but know the words you call it
are yours alone to read.
Is it any wonder
that no poet has the right
to write their own sweet epitaph
that lives on after light.
Only in true loving
can any hope to gain
some eternal immortality
in joy, in hope, in pain.
And I found that love I needed
in this sweet and warm embrace
so no longer do I plead for
all to see my face.
Now I am yours and you are mine,
where life in trials and love is blind.
Beautiful!