The Counting

Love as hard as ever you can,
For dust will always gather,
And youth mostly squandered leaves fast its mess,
Empires rot and scatter to the winds,
All fine cloth and silks to the moths,
Gold's longing shine is eternal, dead and heavy,
Work fulfilling or grinding is all compost in the end,
Fame and status however grand will lie forgotten,
Under pigeon shit and verdigris, until pilfered,
Melted down and sold on for scrap.

Only love holds worth in the counting that must come.
Love: Anothers soul gaze in the soft clasp of flesh.
Love: A held child sleeping, open heart and utter trust.
Love: The living mystery, of the poem beyond the self...