Once laid to rest upon the velvet page
Dressed in his best attire of black on white,
The word, preserved in death, ceases to age –
Eternal life with eyes closed and palms pressed tight.
Still he grows and moves and lives as a child
Playing; stirring emotions with his hands,
He colors deepest heartache, passions, wild
anger in hues of blues and reds with crayons.
Fading, the word turns into fondness framed -
His remains, abandoned for another’s.
With degrees of affection, his is named
As child by author and friend by others.
The death of a word is but a device,
and each story is born of sacrifice.