I sank a lie in the harbour,
watched it sink like a stone.
Your beauty an apostle
asked me to live quite alone.
The streets are empty of your laughter
wild birds still flitter and fly,
The children carry on playing
as every rose withers and dies.
The scent of your dew on my fingers,
the place where death goes to die.
A memory that breathes as it lingers
on the fringe of an innocent sigh.
The black dress you left here one evening
full of bats and sinister themes,
drapes an elegant coffin
in both life and my dreams.
Snapshots carved in my pillow
of the place where death goes to die,
chipped with a sharpened halo
once trapped between your thighs.
I found the place we once roamed
with my back turned to the sea,
a quick snap of my fingers
called death to die with me.
Instead he sang as a singer
"If I go you'll never be free,
in dream this love will linger,
in song and in memory."
The streets drowned in your laughter,
wild birds flitter and fly,
I light a candle on the altar
at the place where death goes to die.
Inspired by a line from a Leonard Cohen song.
