Epiphany

Great poetry is spoilt in heroic times That go unsung on emotional climes, In rhythm-laden occurrences in life's Countless merrymakings and strifes. And so why do we say crisp verse Comes rarer than the bluest rose? Is not your deep-piercing tear of woe Full of as much rhyme as its source? But there's painful absence of a patient pen Ready to immortalise varying deeds of men In freshest tones and in fine-metred lines, In memorable turns and high-troped signs. A thousand sweet odes unspeaking lie In your sorrow-filled text to a lost friend; And millions of muted epics sadly sigh In killing failures into successes turned. Every raw impulse of life and fleeting breath Sings one trillion sonnets on love and death.