In the most imperfect direction.
A road most traveled
By people at their least devotion.
I held on,
For the life of her,
But Nature had other plans,
Nature afflicted her
With something I could not repair.
Oh, why Death is never the debater!
I could have a discussion,
I could end Death
I could speak words, blacker than ever Death was
To the holes it creates
In people’s hearts.
I wanted to forge fire in her veins,
And all I received was a coldness.
Death never talks,
For it is the most honest of things,
And creates the most equal of men
For our selfish lives.
What do we know
Upon its embrace?
We know only the words that remain buried,
Because, we cannot show
What we have embraced.