this begins as a response to a greeting and has gown through desire to become what we have here…
when I am asked from whence does inspiration come…
then i say it comes with you.
and when I am asked where does inspiration go,
then i would ask where does the wind go?
your atmosphere does stir me
if I be dead,
as this stone would so declare,
then how may love stir within this vault?
how save that you who perseveres have not released me from the radiance of your heart?
Oh parted love…
all is well.
all was well...
when we lit the fires as the wind swept through with a barren coldness
a chill reminiscent of hearts of stone
to linger silent still over the graves
waiting with our ice blind eyes
come those who would seek to remember.
as we wait the birds cease their songs to silent perch
still upon the snow sown boughs
as shadows against the rising moon…
for as the night is soon upon us
as the night is deep within us,
we stir anew
while others in their repose
rest comfortable upon the edge
of peace and all eternity.
who has come,
to this plot where names are aged in moss and frost
carved as the shades of a shadow cast
for we are here…
though time is but as a memory,
speak brave that i may speak in turn,
for as an echo i can not
for i am as but a mood...
and your atmosphere does stir me still.
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