This Is It Then
I have stared at this page for too long now; time urges me to relinquish my
thoughts.
So this is it then; my last great poem; this mouth of silence and heart clotted with
failure has reached the no more of me. I’m dying in my heart; my vague clusters
of verses are now a heaviness. I’ve given everything I’ve got, but now the words are
all gone; gone like a faint spirit lost to memory. To be or not to be is not the
question, for the pain of being, supersedes the revelation of not to be.
My authority over verse has succumbed to the limitations of my greatest desire.
My words were once like snowflakes rushing towards you, and you marveled at
them as they absorbed into you; and you felt their beauty with your heart,
and you understood how the storm of their individuality settled into the oneness
of poetry.
Once, my verses were full and strong and certain with perfection at the core of
their meaning. The hunger to write one more poem has all but left me. All is lost.
New poems will not take root when watered with the tears of yesterday.
Death will not know of my struggle. There is nothing in me to consume the
wonder in you; I am tired, and will now cease my dreaming. This is the last great
poem I’ll ever write. Time has consumed all the fire in my heart,
and all the verbs and nouns in my brain.
I’m breaking down now, for I’m at a loss for words to say; (good-bye.)
this last great poem that I’ve just written, makes you remember me…
BUT! Please don’t cry.
Copyright © Peter Fifield | Year Posted 2007
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