.................................................................................
The song fixed itself in his thoughts
as he wrote his letter of introduction.
He could not avoid it's cruel, ironic twist...
"I've tried to mend
The love that ended
Long ago although we still pretend
Our love is surely coming to an end
Don't waste the time,
you've got to love again!
We tried to lie
But you and I
Know better than to let each other lie.
The thought of lying to you makes me cry
while counting up the time that's passed us by.
I've sent this letter hoping it will reach your hand…
And if it does I hope that you will understand
That I must leave
in a while
and though I smile
You know the smile is only there
to hide
What I'm really feeling
deep inside
you'd see my heart hang, choking in its pride...
Goodbye
Goodbye"
The words dance soundlessly with his muse
as he attempts to write the word ‘Hello’...
His desk, in the dimly lit corner of the cottage,
sympathizes in support.
The word ‘Goodbye’ hangs in the air like a chilled ghost
appearing out of the mists from the distant corners
of his churning mind.
Goodbye...
Goodbye...
Why those words now?
The words are ripped from the chamber of his heart
held for her, reserved for her,
and this haunting melody that stirs,
playing over and over again, does not let him rest
nor does it ease his mind...
The nightingale knowingly sings
his sad melancholy outside the window.
It is lofted high through the trees
and dissipates in the evening wind.
It is such of his feelings lately
that are carried away
and enchant the forest.
He closes his cottage shutters
when the chill of the stream breeze
catches his hands and slows them.
He must finish this letter, he muses…
The pen unwillingly begins again
to scratch the resisting parchment
as he attempts to feign a light heart
with his words,
but the weight of the feeling soon returns...
Goodbye
and grows heavily
as the sunlight gradually dims.
It is a reminder to him that time does not stand still,
even amid love's uncertainties and fears.
His hand which has never touched hers
endeavors to push the pen forward,
but it has been siezed by his aching heart.
He distractedly runs his fingers through his hair,
accompanied by a faint, delusional wish
that her fingers are there, aware of his sorrow.
The first stars appear and their caressing lights
steal through a shutter slit;
he succumbs to his weariness
and enters into a fitful dream.
“G’nite, Poet” he hears her silent words fall.
| 
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Wayne, please see the update at the top of the contest page...
Wanda
Dammmnnn, Wayne...are ya tryin' to break my Heart, Poet??? Ya nearly did with this poignantly beautiful, pensive & powerful piece, my Friend...it's wonderful, Wayne...There is such incredible sorrow & haunting Memory to this penning...Thank you for entering such an emotion~drenched poem, Wayne...but...but...why??? Sighhh... G'night, Poet...
lol
6 old applause
