Tessa, The Heart That Lives

We’ll not be ceremonious.
Still, winter. But no we’re not ramshackled.
There’s a twitchy moth.
The flame, oh, the flame.

Sure it will give out.
It circles back to dying.
Withering. The last, frugal,
unheroic, unadorned self.

Then are you not the more cherished? Are we,
in sickness and death? Unflagging love?
Where is your God now? Coughing, spitting?
Comfort for the soul?

Well then. There we worship, anointed in
the shrine of secret hopes.

Prompt: So my thoughts have veered toward death. Is death a taboo subject? Memento mori (“remember that you must die”) is a poetic motif. What must one fulfill before death? Let your poem refect on mortality and immortality. My writing, like yours, is an immortality project. Of course it is. Our poems become our living essences after we die.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s