The Last Love
The Last Love
Memory’s fabric, tattered and worn,
Patched together with logic and lies
Lies limp on the ash-heap of decades and years
Cocooning the fragments
The once sharp-edged fragments
The smoothed-off old fragments
Of yesterday’s joy and of pain.
The facts have all faded and frayed
And only the feelings remain.
And it matters to no one still living
If the overture follows the coda
Or the stories have endings. Or not.
For the sharing that binds us as family
Grows thin as the blood in my veins
And the audience drifts to the exits
And the spotlight grows fainter and fades
And the narrator’s voice is a whisper
As the curtain descends to the stage.
But the sun’s nearly on the horizon
And it breaks through the afternoon clouds
And a glorious sunset awaits me
And a gentle hand nestles in mine
As we start walking westward together
Toward an end – or a loving beginning –
And the evening star’s light starts to shine.
As Always I wish you peace.
Memory can only tell us what we were,
in the company of those we loved;
it cannot help us find what each of us, alone, must now become.
Yet no person is really alone;
those who live no more echo still within our thoughts and words,
and what they did has become woven into what we are.
I wish you peace and a level path on your journey...
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