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Poetry for love and loss, life and death. In life there are a thousand ways to live and die at the hand of love.

Updated on April 30, 2016
Alexander Merrick profile image

A man, a creature, a myth, an enigma wrapped in a riddle crawled from the river styx. Some would say he doesn't exist. Nothing but illusion.

Beyond Repair

A hollow, broken man once sat on a log
Wholly in the middle of a luminous fog
Crying out for anyone who would hear
With no one around he shed his final tear

He walked away from a life utterly dreary
Leaving in a note his last and only query
"Why is there not one for me, why am I so alone?
Why do I walk amidst this fog so weary, sapping the strength from my bones?"

From somewhere in the distance a gossamer voice whispered
'You were sent off course when the ship that is your life listed
Everyone, every last soul on board perished save one
But you... you have survived the loss my fortunate son'

"I feel not fortunate I am detached and abandoned" he replied
He listened ever so intently for a response he was denied
"Why call out to me only to keep your silence?"
The hollow man railed with vehement defiance

Again the somber silence encroached upon him
The effusing light of the sun grew dim
Then as the darkness came calling
The effluvium of death seethed, crawling

Breaking from his thoughts for only a moment
His train of thought the only opponent
He noticed that what he sat on was not a log
But a moss covered tomb in the middle of a bog

Hurriedly scraping away the riff raff and rubble
The vacant man for a moment all but forgot his troubles
Fervently working to clear away the moss
Finally seeing clearly he was at a loss

The inscription on the tomb as it read
Was something so solemn it inspired dread
An epitaph written by his own hand
And the wielding of wit only his to command

Here lies the man Alexander Merrick
In his life and love always altruistic
Gave everything he had for the love of the pen
Learning his craft from the wisest of men

A man who loved truly and deeply, at times quiet and shy
Never garnering a second glance from the most beautiful eye
All but invisible to the world in its abundance of life
The epitome of the phantom, a specter without a wife

Alas, he died penniless and alone
With ne'er a love to call his own
No sire of his loins to pick up the gauntlet
No wife would have him he was far too dauntless

The shadow of a man now knew what had happened
Without someone to love his world became blackened
Now lingering between life and death, forever trapped in purgatory
He had taken his last and final breath only to be bound here eternally

Rest in peace Sir Merrick, your mighty pen and unwieldy wit will one day be missed by a select few.

Alexander L Merrick

In a search for love how do we become so lost? Are we simply distracted by life and the pursuit of our goals of something better? Is love just not to be found for some? How does a man who has so much love to offer find himself in purgatory, trapped somewhere between life and death for a lack of someone to love?

As you can see I have more questions than answers. It would seem that the answers lie somewhere in the space between living and dying. First and last breath. When we come into the world as new born babes we have an innocence that gives us insight to true love. We love unconditionally and to the fullest extent that love has to offer. But, somewhere along the way we seem to lose that innocence and with it our capacity to love is replaced by a love of goals.

The heart of an artist and a poet is a peculiar thing indeed. It has the capacity to love so intimately and passionately that it is oftentimes wholly consumed by the love of the medium itself with the object of its passion as the subject for the work. So the real question would be, does the artist or the poet's love for the medium of his work consume him or does he love the object of his passion more? The subject of his passion surely is the basis and inspiration for the work itself but the creation and framing of its beauty within the work to give it life immortal is what they truly strive for. To immortalize the weakness of the flesh. Physical beauty will fade with time but once immortalized in paper or print it will never die, never fade.

It has been said, "If a painter or a poet falls in love with you, you can never die."

© 2016 Alexander Merrick


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