Death's Lament

            How can I but die for thee,
            who reads each line across my face?
            With well-trained finger every word you trace,
            interlace of word with word stitched anew…
            Against these lips speak only grace,
            pointed to that place where such things we do
            as would merit this book's burning.
            
            But we, the covers, pressed toward another,
            amidst our blackened sheets yearning,
            in this darkness, come together,
            hardly caring where or whether
            leads our conflagration,
            to some deeper thought or admiration
            that might meddle in this—
            for this
            is all we wish.
            
            But should a single page remain
            to relate the tale, in rumor bound,
            we'll find our words in windings wound;
            death to us, who sought death out, and on this pain
            must bury that love which we had found
            more sweet to read than any one's refrain.
            
            What is a sonnet to our love,
            which we fill with volumes edifying,
            if not sainted, than the stuff of
            what makes two tales' living and dying—
            or, at least, what makes their sighing,
            though wordless, write a book
            within whose pages one might look,
            and find our corpses there,
            and with us share
            this testament
            of death's lament.