Like a wraith
from the beyond he
visits me in my place of repose,
pushing wide the doors of his tomb.
Resurrecting feelings buried–yet alive.
“Where have you been?” I inquire aching
for reply. Poor reports come–now and then.
His love is revived–from time to time. What
is one constant in this shadow of a life snuffed
out in its prime? My love for him. It hasn’t died.
It lives on, buried in the darkest crypt of my heart.
Renewed as the reaper’s blade rends the recesses
of my soul. Love dies not. It rests in its ponderous
shrine then arouses to recall those lost, so mortals
can elude the sepulchral tomb and find immortality.