Great poetry is spoilt in heroic times
That go unsung on emotional climes,
In rhythm-laden occurrences in life's
Countless merrymakings and strifes.
And so why do we say crisp verse
Comes rarer than the bluest rose?
Is not your deep-piercing tear of woe
Full of as much rhyme as its source?
But there's painful absence of a patient pen
Ready to immortalise varying deeds of men
In freshest tones and in fine-metred lines,
In memorable turns and high-troped signs.
A thousand sweet odes unspeaking lie
In your sorrow-filled text to a lost friend;
And millions of muted epics sadly sigh
In killing failures into successes turned.
Every raw impulse of life and fleeting breath
Sings one trillion sonnets on love and death.