Epitaph

In stone and hopeful tone I persevere,

with orders for sorrows to disappear!

For if o’er my grave one tear of maiden,

man, or child, slips of rue-eyne laden;

should kin beloved bemoan me far away,

I’m near as death is to you everyday!

Forever whither, through opus of mots,

memories of when, as woeful as beaux;

wherefore livings sake, lay I hence bereft

the fruits of being but in mindful breadth.

It’s lovely but in always forlorn brood,

my absent presence fails to lift your mood.

It’s only joyous mem’ry I beseech,

in poetic most this manner of speech!