Poetry, death isn’t the end. A good poem
will stain the minds of those who read it.
Like a the perfect lover who  had left,
memory is consumed by them, while
experiencing regret now. Leading one
to the mysterious rites and rituals (I
got comrades, murdered and resurrected).
Enigmatic mystic, craving only touch - again.
Not something, where poetry nor mysticism
could ever provide. Rebirth