An epitaph obliged

Here rests herself, a narrative.
Subdued before she could give
To reason with life another laughter
Aforesaid woman sleeps alone here.

Under the juniper on a hill solitary
Mourned still by this forlorn prairie
In aftersongs of high wind rhymers
And pouring pale dead that blanket her.

All that mother of afflatus left above
Are torn apart rumors of half love
and flashbacks of sapphire eyes in truth-
Once felt by many unheard-of youth.

Whatever the Fates had to string
For those who lack a seraphic ring.
Cinder in my eyes or fingertip’s gall
Are not the sorest of them all.

The evening perishes, I yet inscribe
An unsigned work sans a critic’s jibe.
Words remain hard to engrave in rain
While I enshroud my tone, in vain.