Epitaphs, eulogies,
flattery diseased
or cold graves
Not one of the maladies
that kill the mundane
over and again
Can ever reach
even the shadow
of a poet
As the poem
goes on living
unfazed by death
beyond the tombs
that can't contain
the runes of her spirit
beyond the walls
not tall enough
to hold between them
the ruins of the enigma
that she is
Emerging through each verse
like a child just born
teasing between the rhymes
unkempt
Not a mere distraction
from the mediocre
or the mundane
An assured percussion
on the head too bent
on purpose or premise
some sighs are best left
unheaved
some poems
just felt
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