Love does not stop because the loved one dies.
It drowns in grief, and suffers a sea change
Until it sees with more than mortal eyes
And blossoms into something rich and strange
That plucks the ripest fruits of memory
And polishes them up until they gleam
And aches for something that can never be
And makes from emptiness a tempting dream
Just like first love does when the heart is young—
With yearning and despair—each nerve ignited
With love that bleeds like honey on the tongue—
Never returned, and yet not unrequited:
A dead seed planted in Life’s darkest hour
That will past death forever bloom and flower.
Copyright 2013 Matthew J Wells