No Remorse Poem by William Coyne

Out of great misery may rise a small sweet song,
a peach fuzzed golden petal unbruised by a storm,
torn from the stem, now distant from its fragrant source,
withering away its final days,
sweetly, innocent, with no remorse.

Come, then, more the memories of sweet and doey eyes
you lovingly draped over my sullen gazes.
You were not mine to have in flowered pastures,
embracing away our final days
under long shadows of shading firs.

The black storms raged in my breast endlessly for years,
yet yielded drops of sweetest nectar I stored away,
and sip on now, not to ease my present ailments,
but to gild the rim of final days
in soft memories of love well spent.