Remembering the day I met you
I can’t help but begin to write
Of the act called our love
Or the emotions of our death
Are you still that much better than I?
Or should I explain my poems?
Can you feel the heat in which I write
Or see the flames formed in my “I”
Cold from age has grown our love
So that in its death
Burning poems
Cannot rekindle you
No longer can our love
Be formed into poems
Nor any longer can you
Read the words I write
Now its me, myself, and I
Expecting life after death
Without your name how do I title poems?
How can I survive without your love?
What once drove me to write
Now dots the I
And the decaying stench of death
Rises from the flowers around you
Flowers raging against the summer’s death
Are not that much different than I
For our fortunes, writ on the wall like poems,
Cannot live without the sun’s love!
Their sun is far away, but mine is you
So I can draw close enough for it to burn what I write
You say goodbye, but how can I?
I am not a fool, but nor are you
When you say that what I write
Are more like scribbles than poems.
But while it is another you love
My scribbles eulogize our death.
Even though you call our love death
Who would’ve knew, that I
Still write poems about you.
Veritas Ex Logos 