The Last Word
In those eyes, of china blue, where flames of love once raged,
I saw the loss of passion creep, as ardours hold assuaged.
And on my ear, where fell the sound, of yesterday’s life dream,
I heard the silent painful sound in Edvard Munch’s Scream.
Oh how the loss of what we had, now twists this struggling heart,
that beats in melancholy time, defying surgeons art.
Elysian fields of yesterday, slow fading from my sight,
rebuke me with lost promise, as I behold the cold of night.
Carefree days and careless ways each played assassins part,
stealthy blades unnoticed, as they quietly pierced the heart.
Too late too late, the warning cry, unheeded and unheard,
what’s lost is gone forever,
goodbye is such a final word.
Copyright © David Wallace | Year Posted 2011
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