Colleagues

My humble verse may be construed as cold  
When future people read my lines,  
Long contaminated with dust and mold  
Or obfuscated by thick ivy vines.  
Where lay my heart amid such ordered verse?  
Most see truth only in initial blurts  
Manifesting in some emotive curse  
And motivated by internal hurts...  
Well camouflaged by old masters of Zen  
Or stoics claiming the hurt wasn't there  
Or fluming through the urbane poet's pen  
To change pain into something debonair,  
Whereby he may inspire his peers  
With memento mori to mask the tears!