Where doth love go to die?
Does it need a grave, a coffin,
a farewell sigh?
An elegy, a dirge,
requiem of divine lament —
does each seeker mourn its forgotten scent?
Where do all the mourners lay
that cold, heavy, golden corpse?
Do they don drapes of dismay,
sob and carry on in vulgar display?
Or do they turn their face away,
tears cascade, hidden in the fray?
Is it easy to bury
in the soft soil of the earth,
or does each memory leave a stain
on the pallbearers’ empty hearth?
Does love die easy,
like most mortals do,
or does it reincarnate —
in eternal undead hue?
Where doth love go to die?
In heaven, where creature cares,
matter not at all?
Or in hell, where that deathly pain
drowns its unearthly call?
This is a poem I wrote yesterday about the nature of love. I was wondering about some characters in my novel and their interactions, and this came to mind.
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