This is not meant to be a poem.

Never delete what you were. Even though it doesn't reflect your current being. You must be proud of what you were because it got you until now and it prepared you. It gave you the tools. It WAS you and hence it IS still you.

Never be ashamed of the love you felt and gave. Instead. Grow in love and grow the love.

And if things did not go the best possible way. Well. What even is the best possible way? Things went the only way possible. You learn from what happens and live the way you think is best for you. Maybe learning from mistakes too.

There are no true immortal beings, but immortal are the feelings we feel and the ideas that we bring to others. This is because ideas and feelings will move through generations as long as someone is willing to talk about them. Share them. Write them. And speak about them with other people.

This is magic.

I guess that's all.

Infamy
An attempt to cheat mortality
And live forever

an effigy
Uranus, his jester privilege
The worm that turns

Infinite streams
An inner world
Which is?

Formless, Limitless
aurelian thread;
Immortality’s proxy.

Words won't die,
But worders do;
The turned phrase stays
Young as you.

Where do these pangs go?
Dying elephants don't know.
Old Hollywood shows,
Brigadoon and El Dorado.
At the bottom of a *** of gold,
Beneath double rainbows.

I read Chaucer
When he was young,
And Emily too,
And Rev. John Donne.
Batter my heart...
Yet feeds
Mine
As I read it once again.

Across the years, 400 plus, my stories endlessly play out their parts.
I played not on painted stage, but I knew the human heart - 
I captured, with quill and scratch, the passions of laughter and tears.
I held up a mirror, in doublet and verse, to things unbound by years,
like the weight of grief, the lightness of love and the serpents of ambition.
The music of verse, the lilt and fall of words, hold a strange enchantment,
brief spells where fools, princes, witches and kings shared a selfsame planet.
Though my bones lay in hallowed ground, the stories I spun linger yet.
They've played out, in age after age, on a thousand, thousand stages.
It’s well done, if I say so myself, to live on, in millions of minds and bookshelves.
.
.
A song for this:
Just Like Romeo and Juliet by The Reflections

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                             In Perfection But a Little Moment

                                   Cf. Shakespeare, Sonnet 15

Apparently the stars are talking about us
Pondering the transitoriness of our lives
And how we, though in the beauty of our youth
Must eventually decline, decay, and die

But we are promised an immortality
Possibly not granted even to the stars
The promise is in the springtime of our lives
The promise itself is an open tomb far away

Apparently the stars are talking about us
(You would think they have other things to do)

Time may stop
But it is those moments of life
Where beauty best sees fit to rest its head
Upon shoulders of iron will that refuse to bow
A strength beholden to one shared amongst the many
A light in the dark soul of a world gone mad
That shatters the sad heart born of a passing
Into a better state
One that knows no fear lest time resume
Its ever marching trek down the flowery gardens
To which experience paves a road of gold
Not diminished by its steady crossing
But improved for having been graced with such resolve
In that every stone demarcates a moment
Where time has slowed and reflections
Shine bright those calm moments of quiet serenity
Whose mother is peace omnipresent
Born from the passion of each step
Where every recollection recalls a story
Best told by those who shared in times gambit
Knowing that even at the end of one path
Time will stop and give birth to a highway of love
Lined with memories of you.

This is immortality