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Friends
He showered life with coveted rarities:
Essential oils, extracts, and perfumes.
Were an Angel to inhale the scent
He'd recall Heaven's flowered meadows.
He surrounded himself with pure souls:
Long brewed distillations of humanity.
Were one to partake of such spirits,
He'd misplace all recollections.
He seasoned life with loyal friends:
Salt of the earth, spices of life.
Were Death to devour his soul,
He'd compliment the Chef.
Ha!
This would make an epitaph.
True!
I didn't think of that but if it were one, that last line would
be both fitting and ironic.
We'll just keep writing 'til there's nothing left to write.
We'll just keep waiting 'til they read all our works left to right.