Epitaph

To he whom I adore, my death has no repose.
Where I lie here, beneath the bottom and yet, still below.
Not a rose nor tear shed from he whom my heart knows.
In my guarded grave on which wild, thorned tendrils grow.

Not a beating heart made broken, not anymore.
Not the echo of the rhythms' haggard, strenuous roar.
Not an afterthought nor whisper, not from he whom I adore.
But a memory long forgotten, now and forevermore.