by Avery Lynn

Created on: July 26, 2009

She turned the last page
and wrote to the end
closed the book pressed
against her heart these many days.

No words or deeds
or flood of tears,
or sword of honor,
once used in betrayal

no sonnet or song,
sweet perfume of rose,
or box of sweets that
taste like heaven,

no call of trumpet,
could stay the coach
with blackened windows,
pulled through the lane,

or summer's breath,
on the back of neck,
warm the fingers
that had gently stroked,

no pictures remain of past
feelings, great joy and laughter
that spun the galaxy
round and round,

nothing could open
that book once closed,
and put on a shelf
away from desperate hands,

and as dust gathered,
across the cover,
with two names in gold
tied in a heart across it,

a single bird sang,
sad through the night,
to ease the pain
of the death of loving.

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