On Writing an Epitaph for the Universe
I was a man made out of words
With the whisp of whispers
Held like treasures, for tomorrow
It was for celebration, not for profit
How can you profit in eternity?
I am a man made out of soul
Of spirit-stuff and fundamental particle
Of joy, I lift the mood of
Alphabets and kiss the spring-odes
I am the early book of youth
On replay, I am the unpublished joy
Of how many writers on the way?
I am an artist who has no canvas
I am the voice that has no audience
I am vanilla love that aches to write
In a brain designed for poor speech
My ballads come as surprises to myself
I write the epitaph for the universe.