On Death and Dying

A message rocks upon the gentle waves,
headed for an unknown destination;
warm arms, warm heart, reconciliation,
a dream, a hope; every lonely heart craves
to turn back time -- as though it were nothing --
just uncap the Master's slipstream of time,
to atone for an uncommitted crime,
as though that could remove the bitter sting.

No comfort is found in kissing headstones
nor falling in love with decaying bones.

No answer, no symbol, no metaphor,
will ever be found upon Death's fell blade;
ne'er moved by a heart, no matter how sore,
he is no haggler; one cannot persuade.