The soft smoke of breath,
lingers in the taut, dense air,
eyes veiled against comin’ night,
a face etched of pleasures tasted,
folding in on itself, a lost, precious beat,
a heats fluttering echo, in an old worn chair.
Holding fingertips now turning grey slate,
deaths march draws curtains come nigh,
hearts holding in strained breath,
memories writ through with despair,
stories to be shed in waxen tales,
of a life that past in a shallow cry.
Ov’r in a second, the soft tread of the Reaper,
death a message of finality and more,
grief rising on a lovers breast and weep,
dreams scattered like fallen leaves,
ghosts dancing in the wings of passing,
faces lost to sleep and musics call.
But there is more to be had,
than a silvery tear like chalk on a cheek,
the departure now a telling tale,
of years sliding, and minutes, hours,
a smattering of thumping reminders,
to hold on until lifes pulse goes weak.
Goodnigt now, the mists move gaily in the light,
memories weave new permutations and pray,
heads bowed, you say a sorrowful farewell,
to those you cherish and remember the reason,
you still step amongst the earths golden crust,
Father Time has granted you another day.
© Henrietta M Ross.
Follow me on social media for stories, poetry, monologues, oddness and my life as a unpublished author. I am changing this trajectory, one moan at a time.
Or follow my cranky newsletter.
Thanks for stopping by ♥ Please share this post if you like it. I need all your support.