Poem — At The Grave Of Wilde

At Wildes grave

If every man could take a page out of this mans book;
Learning of love, and learning to hold it
Despite others and learning
Of life’s unearned heart aches
No longer containing it, leaving it buried
In dusted caches.
We look at stars
Regardless of which gutter
we come from.

But we learn to be
At home in such gutters
Afraid of the stars themselves.
You taught others
That a single star
Could be worth a damn
And that the flowers we leave behind
Are worth preserving
Even when no one may be listening.

We still have love even in
The coldest of places.
An Irish peacock who learned
To downplay his plumage:
You were taught that love
In whatever stages of its complexity
Was never noble, nor worth pursuing

Nor worth claiming even when
It is caught in your minds darkest webs
I lay down, and lay two gifts
A bright collection of a rainbow bouquet
And a small, bright red lipstick
You need to look your best
No matter where you are

 

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