Love and Death

tales have been told of Love— 
falsehood and fable, most of it
One: the lie that Love can be captured 
or even held by the hand 
Love is not beast or mythic titan,
to be bested and made useful
Love is a land, a hold
a majestic, wide chasm from which echoes
of rhyme and song call out 
enticing, pursuing, singing, "Come," and they come
to the precipice to peer in—Such vastness! 
but few begin the decent
into the dark quiet. Few brave the rocky path
down, down, down
and then lower still to
Lie in Love's grave;
be soothed
by its silence be
freed by finality; feel fertile black
earth 'neath wearisome bones
such peace and repose is only
for those who give in, give up
a million imaginings
the dead keep the secret
of finding the way
to die of love