I like to think, I won’t be gone

When my breathing has dwindled;

To post-life’s low hum

Orchestrated in

Note amassed story

Of days flitted past,

Their arrogant immortality looped

On cinematic reel

Re-enacted for an audience

Picked over again until they know

Where I stood,

Knew who I was,

And how I spoke your name,

And what I would

Do if I could walk the boards

Another hour

Across a global stage

I’d be the shadow

Behind the scenic door,

With a lover’s caress

To rival a moth’s wing,

And I’ll turn slow

To a song no one else can hear

The final waltz

Envied in its quiet close

The ghost of a crescendo

Whispered thickly

Through inaudible assonance,

Enunciating the Bard’s words

Performed generations before

I’ll compose, in theatrical form,

Cryptic lines

To an obsolete script,

To amount to a playwright;

My epitaph the title

Of an infinite play,

My last actions

Curtained directions exuent;

My last words

Up in lights

Above an occupant robbed grave



Amber R Walker, Hull, Creative Writer, Bookmaker, Lover of art

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