the last poem

This is the last poem, overdue words
ingredients gone sour on the label of a can
words long past their expiry dates
too long embalmed by memory
and pickled by regret
floating like an embryo in a silent goo.
they have tumbled off the caravan
inertia overcome
words eating the dust.

This is where I bury a life:
here lies the doom of a half-formed sentence
a time capsule of an incomplete past
of unfinished thoughts, unfulfilled wishes
some half-forgotten dreams, a fraction of time.
the inheritance of memory, given to the wind
those things that flickered around
the sundial of a life
winding down to the end.

This is the last evening
the sky heavy with the thoughts of the day
when buses ponder at every stop
and men wear eyebags weighed down with words
having a think or two over tea.
the clouds are dark with question marks
and the weatherman's worries condense, and fall.
from you, the trail of a plane like a farewell from the sky
for me, unspoken words and a dampness not yet dry.

This is the last time, this is the end
the resting-place of stories too broken to mend
seeds will not grow when they are six feet under
too deep for tears to reach or hopes to plunder
this is the last poem, a wish too forlorn to rescue
and its last word must belong only to you.

____________________

Too much has been thought and felt, wondered about and imagined, forgotten and realised much too late. It is over, all of it. This is the last poem, at least for a while.