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Poem

As death mimics love itself and clutch a throbbing heart,
kindling consolation to savor flight, farther and farther 
beyond the inner yelps released as vibrating soar easily,
stimulating stress to execute its portion and naught idle,
merely trounce its climatic claim with an uttered gasp.

Exhale nor inhale as a soul embarks anew venture upon
a road that seems less traveled, albeit, a much-traveled
road, nonetheless, deliberating back to that grey hued
frame, thoroughly placed in peace, smiling at once was a 
vestige of their former self as hands clasp naught wave.

The hours, the days, the years, all appear as if time itself
is naught placed on hold, but practically be nonexistent,
then again, seeing the circumstances unfold, obviously,
one will be able to grasp that there is no other direction
of a skyless opaque mist, except a harmonious presence.

As distinction advents and all be so unique and naught 
strange, more and more a glide into the everlasting light
and that the glorious manifestation established hereon,
whereby, one came upon Steinbeck as he was sitting by
vines, beaming, as he was writing, The Grapes of Mirth.

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