The Last Rose
Like the last rose of summer she is a wilting flower
Drooping, head bowed, weighed down by the weight of isolation
Her petals are as faded and as crumpled as her spirit
She is a wraith, haunted by her past and the echoes of time
Keening silently in her dreams where no-one can hear
Desolate and dejected she roams the earth
Wailing for her companion, her lover, her friend
She shall be his last lullaby...
Until she fades away with the mist, lost in her aloneness -
This is what dying of heartbreak looks like...
The silent, invisible fall into desolate, eternal oblivion.
By Marie Bruce
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