There is a certain peace
that comes with knowing
forever ends as it begins:

Resolution to a quiet resolve
where courage once failed
offers hope where
none is else offered.

Epitaphs are only ever written
as an afterthought,
forgetting all but memory,
and what will never be.

So the poet writes his own,
knowing what will be
between the gods and he,
without the fear once held
of finding his release.



From my brow
falls the last of my inspiration,
exorcised by a quickened pulse,
and I am finally spent,
naught but my breath
feeding me life
and the strength of the spirit
to persevere, as resolute
as only a corpse can be.