When at last the last nail has pierced the heart
of understanding and the brain is mum,
there is nothing else to say to remedy the pain.
Dead is the brain.
The beating of heart flutters and grows still.
Words as distraction have no meaning,
lost doves flying in a wingbeat of living
a ghostly, yet beautiful refrain.
We speak and still do not know.
We spoke and said nothing.
We shined and it was stolen.
We lived and loved and it was
enough to quiet us into eternity.
There is nothing else to say.
It's better this way. Carry on.
No comments:
Post a Comment