When it’s done

Death is a poem
struggling to seize words
rooted in the final image
of the heart’s eye.

Life’s chime becomes
a scattered vibrato,
dripping down the page.
Written as long
as thought rode
over the plains;
til it melts
into the rainless sand.

Those who find
artifacts, dry as bones -
full of the emptiness
that stretches between stars;
will not fathom
their meaning.

They might see
a diffused light
among the stones;
hear a withered sigh
inching across the ground.
They will not know
how the verse ends.


© 2003 Melissa Songer