This work was found in a little known anthology of poems penned by the almost deceased. The author, unfortunately, remains unknown.
It started as a tale of a different kind
From different people, as is the way of age.
People untouched, people with naught but time
to live the world, as Earth’s young dreamers do.
So strong we were, unbandaged and in love.
We swore ourselves to never part 'til death.
There is no might in life, but strong is death.
Though neither patient, thoughtful, wise, or kind.
It comes on plodding, rotten feet of age.
Merely wearing on each of us in time.
Day by skyless day, and naught we do
Can stay or keep our crumbling bones, my love.
They told us as young babes that only love
Could pierce the veil, could part the stream of death.
That God would come from each of us in kind.
What would they say of us, in this new age?
I doubt they knew the changes wrought by Time
No sage brought here would know of what to do.
My bones will fall apart before we do.
They beat with fluttered wings of what was love.
My blood flows yet, still with you despite death.
Should we part? Is this not-life the kind
Of which our vows spoke? Life grows with age
But I’ve naught to give out in my tired time.
It’s all we have now, lassitude and time,
Shared with others of abundance, as they do.
And grieving, of what we still, but cannot love.
Such is the way of prisons, of this death.
At most a visit, of a begrudging kind
From those who rudely mock our tomb-bound age.
They’ll move here too, from reckless death and age.
The work of that pernicious Healer, Time.
Who builds my mind but takes what I can do.
How thankful I am, that effortless is love
It shrinks, but words shore up this little death
With hands linked, bound like bodies of our kind.
Thoughts change as they do. Forever is an age,
Not a gift of our kind, brought only by death.
A moment of time is all I can give you, love.