A note to death.

What world to which he lives
A tender sonnet, a kept placement in fielded flower's
In death he knows not, he is loved, admired
Ode the passing hour's
i feel him in the breathless
Wind, and hear the whispers say
Gone are not his lively wishes
In dying
By night a blissful day

Within the silence of his
Memory, all to love
The moon would bay

And in the crevice of morning light, standing fast amongst the tree's
I feel a soft reminder
Of his so faithful please

Then in my wake to pleasure him, a note to death did write

And sealed it with the antidote, to love
An honored fight

To love as much the flowers blooming, the heart in me 
Still deathly glooming 
Some winter upon the ground

To walk with him in springtime,
inside of love wood bound.