Its only echoes now
hollow greeting, calling from nowhere
Fluff flying in the teasing breeze.
The sound of near silence about me
Walking, through the wilderness of waste,
the rubble of a stretched soul,
broken on the pages of a book
bound in tears, your years all gone.
Voices, rejoice and lament,
the slow torment of living
in the near now and the near gone,
the chapel of tears
and the altar of forlorn.
take the past back to where it belongs,
no righting of wrongs,
no words from dead lips,
no retrospective embrace,
no holy grace.
The final kiss on a cold dead face.
© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com