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


of all that beat and flowed and pulsed

i have no song left in me.

21 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’]

      • I don’t know. Maybe in a way. It doesn’t feel beautiful when you are the one expressing your pain. It feels like something ugly and shadowed has gripped you in its sharp talons, and all you can do is bleed. Maybe sometimes, the way we express our pain seems beautiful to someone who is outside of it.

      • For some reason, with everything that runs through my heart and mind on a daily basis, I can write about love, romance, and all sorts of that stuff.. but I’m thinking and feeling the very opposite.

        You write very well! I’m sorry if it brings you pain… but it is a glimpse inside you.

      • I hope you don’t mind, but I am not a casual commenter… I’m usually going deep lol..

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