Is there ever
A beginning
To anything
Without its end?
Or is there ever
An end
Without its beginning?
Or is it that “if” there
Is a beginning -
Then there must
Be an end?
The invalidity of
These questions
Bear witness to
The feebleness of
My human existence.

But grieve not for me
Ye simple travelers
And fair
Mystic Nymphs.
Instead – go pluck
The roses
And scatter their petals
In thy path.
For God himself
Has done no more
And ye cannot
Be better served
At his fountain
Of riches or
Show a better decorum
Than to bring ye
Rosy smelling feet
To him.

Only when one’s face is
Dressed out in the
Pearls of our tears
Are we sure that
We too are infected.
Tis’ a pity when love
Is stolen for it is
Always good though
Not of much use to
Anyone else.
But the heart is for beating,
Is it not?
There is very little
Else in it.
The scriptures say that
If we are as good as
We are handsome
That heaven shall fill it.
But reading that
Says nothing of its pleasure.

Or is the love one’s
Heart finds
Like the rose?
Once plucked
Its petals thrown
On the ground
Reminding us of
The love that
Was once whole?
If so, those petals
Must somehow
Remember us.
Of course -
That must be it.
They remember us
By the smell
Of our feet.