Raise a glass to the Poet cuz there better be a goddamn door
"At the end of my suffering there was a door" - Louise Gluck
There are no words
There is no sound
No blood, no beat
to where we do not follow
The imprint of a life, felt in waves that echo endlessly
in ways that not one of us can grasp in whole.
A hole where once there was a soul.
Love and memory flows like a fountain
from the hearts of those who remain and those who came before.
And yes, also from the mind.
It is an end
It is a beginning
I don't know shit about life or love or death or loss. Only that sometimes it is unbearable in bad ways and sometimes in good. I'm breaking a rule today for the Poet.