Death Be To The Poets of Love

By Anita Ruthjersen

Death be to the poet of love

To those who chase the stars of old,

To those who wander without feeling lost,

To those who long for the unspoken lore,

In the crevices of time and its absence, 

To those who read the books of life and chase it lifeless,

It isn’t the absence that we chase after all, 

It’s the silence that falls when the walls are gone

and the voices all come out to talk, 

with no rhyme or reason at all. 

Because love is what creates, destroys, longs,

It embeds itself into our skin and bones, just begging for someone to bring it out and hold, 

For what are we without it? 

Just an abyss of feelings to be told. 

For if we weren’t meant to find it, 

Secure it and lock it, 

Why would it be here? 

Why would those so-called gods bring us all here if not to feel it. 

Why would poets scream of its ambiance, if we weren’t meant to know of it?

Humanities’ essence is tied up in it all,

The very fabric of our world looking for something we call magical.

But it is us that shed the light,

That dig it into the surface,

That fights the modern day and forces us to stop when we look into its eyes, 

It begs us to see, 

To be.

To exist in harmony, living freely. 

Attaching ourselves to these moments full of love and expecting the memory to hold,

Only that isn’t all it is good for. 

Life is fleeting, a split second of time.

So what are we except the death of love? 

How many of our loved ones have we lost to the chaos of time? 

How much of that love remains here with us outside of our dreams at bedtime? 

So, death be to the poets of love, 

To those who don’t feel beyond the words and long, 

To those who do wander and feel nothing for the world, 

To those who don’t look for the unspoken road, 

Life is designed in these moments of time,

What are we if not inclined?

By Anita Ruthjersen