Abiding

The nightingale would be robbed of its song

If it heard this sigh of deepest despair,

And all the heads of the springing snowdrops

Would hang lifeless, inert in our Sun’s glare.

Death is what gives life to my flowering

Sorrow. It paints the midnight hour black and

Presents dawn with light for later morning

So that life may extend, but Death is the

End. Sometime I will see through the veil

Of truth to define my uncertainty

And see, without eyes, the image of Truth

When I am robed in man’s eternity.

But I wish to not part with Time just yet,

And become a part of its ticking face,

For I stir a love of greatest regret,

That singes my soul, longing to be chaste.

So when the flame of your candle is blown

Out by the whisper of Death, relight it

And see the life of your silver breath shown

In cold darkness, and fear Death, no longer.