My lips still on a poignant note,
mournful and mellow
and unafraid.
This is where the song ends,
where the breath escapes the melody,
where the bitter words that once
shaped the night
and kept you alive
dissipate.
The death march must cease
eventually,
and my lament hums in the air
like a fog.
Ravaged and choked was my voice
as I sang of shadows
and what could’ve been.
It is my last gift to you,
and now the silence is hard and cold
and biting
and lonely.
My lips still on a poignant note,
for the elegy has ended.