is not death the martyr makes,
that for which he fought; behind all thought
rightful acts is birthed.
tolled the steeple-bells report
all forces mustered then I raged;
from the fickle fancies of the fates,
we be said to live outside their reach;
to stride forever this earth alone,
so into our speechless union fade.
when the shadows skyward blaze,
mercy on this whirlwind’s wail we call
lovers’ life we lead.
only one were to escape,
this beyond all other words would read
epitaph of love.