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
no heat

only release
and passage

to where we do not follow

yet


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.