Epitaph in the moonlight

Chiseled words on the stone,

delicately

uttered long ago

by sages, unknown

Or a solemn phrase maybe,

enigma

carved from vanity,

and stoic, shameless cunning,

a hint of malice

Or simply a cliche

in soothing font.

Worthy of an architect’s dream,

my tombstone,

unperturbed, forlorn.

…

Disconcerting thoughts,

I get often,

Of what my grave would say?

Folly?

Prudence?

Or elegance,

suitable enough for a dead man?

…

I’d settle,

without shilly-shally,

for words, plain and humble.

…

So when, on one quite winter evening,

venturing

there in incoherence and disdain,

for a drop of tear, you’d fumble…

I hope my two lines of banal wisdom

shall set you straight.

…

A poet’s redemption

perhaps, such shall be

my epitaph in the moonlight.

…