End of the Line

Posted: August 11, 2014 in Poetry

Your bed is empty and bathed in an eerie moon glow.
Like an altar
with shadows of a darkened hospital ward fretting at its edges.


No-one at the desk.

For that one moment I am all life
mocked by the death I was too late to reach.
Another evening dash which this time missed its connection.
You never waited

for one final stilted conversation

one final goodbye

one last chance for me to chisel through your granite layers
and touch the beat of your heart.

Left behind is this cathedral space
still not big enough
for a hundred questions.
A thousand regrets.


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