Perpetuated

A band of storytellers cries at the wake.
We mourn the basic rhythm of tomorrow,
Your words, overpowered by the bass.

Could I ask a question? And could you
Respond in all honesty, modestly?
We can revel in the slowly realized truth?

We have watched the moon drop,
Crestfallen. (and I am still alive)
But my heart is in the pawnshop.

The muses bestowed upon me
Memento mori, lovers confusion,
And the cutthroat enemy. 

For what is the point of poets, if not to romanticize the unforgivable?