Those last few moments when the air
is Pacific Ocean blue.
The evening eye-close of
silhouettes black in the trees.
The reaching of branches to the
The penitent down on bended knees.
Those last few words said just before dying
which become living heirlooms.
Which comfort and bequeath
all the eyes that are crying
and foreshadow mortality in the arms
we are lying.
A snowflake which melts in the wind.
Those last few drops of creativity
in the fingertips of us all
Evaporate swift as we reach for
the ink, into the hollows dissolve.
We feel it’s the end of an era
tipped over and inside out
‘till we lift up our heads to the ocean-blue dusk
And rekindle what’s left of our power.
Those last few moments before we explode
into myriads of thoughts and of sounds
We dream of our novels and
plays and our poets
and creation, elation, abounds!
A passionate wind stirred up in us, begins us, and
settles our feet to the ground.
Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2005
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