Not a god, not a poem, not a love song,
not a stranger’s-hand thumping the chest, nor a preacher perusing the words he has to sell, not a broken bone set or the warmth of a mother’s love.
Just a finite moment expressed  in the tears of a lost memory, leaking from the eye of fragile flesh. Not a god, not a poem, not a love song.
Just a final breathe.