The other side of despair…

We know of death but pretend to life,
that most useful fiction of mortality.
The end of the end marches in neat lines
making what’s over appear obvious and new.
Epitaphs composed for a cold tombstone
long since ordered, as yet uncalled for.
All of these poems but necessary narremes,
a confusing story of uncertain ending
whose every syllable marks a shambling part,
written by aging fingers on scraps of memories
palimpsests of progress toward the unknown,
pleas of notice to each reader’s wondering heart.

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