Each An Epitaph

I want to run from the grief, from the crippling and the tears. But that dread is a secret thief - out to steal away the memories, the years. I'll be damned if he'll get your names, if I'll let him make off with your stories. That's why you take up the wall with your frames - why I must ever tell of your exploits, our glories. Every time we weep, it is revisited love, perhaps torn by loss, but nonetheless preserved. Safe from fading away and the second death thereof - from that feared fate of true oblivion, an end undeserved. So, folks, value that pain and grip it tight, for it means only that they are still alive. Whether you sing, compose, tell, draw, or write - you are the bearer of their tales, their living archive.