Last Kiss

Come rest awhile in my embrace, my mournful writer.

Let my unswerving hope your longing gaol

And banish from your eyes the flow of tears.

Obscured to the many, their ghostly presence,

I know, is never far.

Please do not frown. Such scorn does not become you.

It scathes in its aloofness. Make your move.

I may not know the rules to play the game with sharpness.

But if you fall – a vagrant – on this plaintive land

With me you will find refuge

From trouble and from sorrow…

Will wait until the morrow

And then will stand again: with you against the deluge.  

Give me your hand.

 Such beauty – almost music – it plucks with modest aptness

And sculpts from mere letters to soothe

Or perhaps question

What fate will strike the many, yet known by so few.

You speak of seas contracting into a boundless star,

Its light subverted to one point of essence.

To write is to defy the gods: inked well, immortal fears

Abandoned, lie ashore.

Give me your hand.

And let me guide you through the land of shadows.

The journey nears. You’ve known it long enough.

Be not afraid. Your words will breathe alive

Long after you are gone.

Hear them howl? Do not ask why.

The time is come.

So weightless in my arms, and like a whisper.

I’ll drink from your lips’ cup the last goodbye.

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In reply to OM’s Death of a Writer