Aug 2016
The page has been written
Not by my hands
My hands seek something else
They seek something to rip out
To burn
And watch as the words are engulfed in flames,
But there is nothing:
No Flame,
No Will,
No strength.
I am alive, I guess
And for now,
The wind does not sing:
It cries,
My heart dies
A little more inside
An elegy of the flesh
As nature itself, forsakes my presence
It is written
And that's that.
Truer than anything I have known.
She is gone
And so am I.
Not by my hands
My hands seek something else
They seek something to rip out
To burn
And watch as the words are engulfed in flames,
But there is nothing:
No Flame,
No Will,
No strength.
I am alive, I guess
And for now,
The wind does not sing:
It cries,
My heart dies
A little more inside
An elegy of the flesh
As nature itself, forsakes my presence
It is written
And that's that.
Truer than anything I have known.
She is gone
And so am I.
Months ago, I wrote a poem to someone I love dearly. I told her I was leaving the last page unwritten. For her to fill with love, with heartbreak, with anything she wanted. This is my response.
