A gaze that casually beckoned, you were
In life a lovely variance;
A symphony of Her.
The tired remedy that, briefly, life foretold
A whispered shadow of a smile,
A reticence so bold.
A solace built of echoes
A winter of a lovely frame,
The white and slender beacon, now
A palely shrinking flame.
What Other could have made you?
A loss so ill defined,
A portrait drawn upon your bones
The haughtiness of lines. Infidel
Of sadness go, import your tragedy
And God may blister with its poised
And if I disappoint you, true
I glimmer, I confess;
The earthliest of urges sought:
The spoils disturb the rest
Attributed to you,
In life, your spirit underground
Digesting all the gentle earth
Inhaling that familiar sound,
Of distant life and love.
That bottle-lightning of your mind,
Inconsequent of oxygen, spared
A dying beckon
Lifted from your glance, preserved,
A sadness that your withered shape has earned,
And listening merely on your silence, rise.
For on that Day, we all shall