the last (a poem)

that place where songs are birthed

glimmers like dawn on a rippling spring

dew glistening

on pale fragile growth

sweetest perfume of newborn rose

velvet softness of untouched skin

where I once danced free beneath the palms

music spilling from within

red and gold as sun setting on private beach

lyrics of love

of pain

of joy

of rage

of all that beat and flowed and pulsed

until you appeared

 
You, with footprints matching mine on silver sands

You, whose heart pumped the same rhythm

You, with honeyed voice that sang my tunes with yours

 
then pushed me away

drawing dark curtains around what was us

changing substance to smoke

locking the gates of Euterpe and Terpsichore

as I, choking on what remains

clutch dried petals to my breast

in mourning that never ends

living for the memory of dew

memory of dance

memory

of all that beat and flowed and pulsed

 
i have no song left in me.

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13 responses to “the last (a poem)

  1. LOL 🙂 fortunately, it’s a choice we don’t have 🙂

    what did Tennyson say? “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all” [ ‘In Memoriam’]

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