- All the Dead are Poets — A Sonnet
This poet’s muses are not passed that he
Need seek in Asphodel his sonnet’s fashion;
Though were it so and in that place they be,
What meadow rich to nurture blooms of passion!
Yet not to descant praise for that perdition
Nor frame in gild the state of such repose,
But cantillate in triumph life’s transition
That transcends earthly terms in it’s transpose;
For whom at rest in that so cold embrace,
Bereft of life in death’s eternal night,
Whom could they breach the void of time and space
Would not ten-thousand godly sonnets write!
When passed beyond this mortal realm’s divide,
All souls are poets on the other side.