Sunday, May 16, 2010
At Long Last, Love
He bought the finest fitted outerwear
And traveled freely first class everywhere
In pent up rage, with once-hidden love aglow
And a well-formed paid companion in tow.
Cancer. In vanity he could not bear to endure
Disfigurement that might have meant a cure,
He learned almost too late his family’s devotion,
Fortune spent, neither nature nor choice the magic potion.
Truth will out, often with a sharp blade at its side.
Closet’s closest friend, the mirror, hangs outside.
The fragrance of the violet is forgiveness’ scent.
Oh spring up gently towards us, twig, when you are bent.
It was not the secret that swordlike ran us through,
But the fury aimed at all his own when he at last was true.
The Moon shows but one face to us from up above.
How far must we all travel until, at long last, love?
For him and for those who loved him, who are dear to me.