Your Poetry Dot Com

Wasted life that had been given,
wax and wane in self made prisons.
Appreciating the moments, no
not so, time passes onward, holding onto yesterdays.

Someone letting go someone hanging on.
The cost is great once the reality hits,
in those lost moments it is to late.
A haunt in the wind moaning, birds cease to sing.

Stone walls, the texture peeling layers
fingers cannot touch without blood flowing.
Stone hearts, set in a pyramid of cold
Many summers passed but ice cant be penetrated.

Useless to waste those moments tender.
In the land of never, voicing those words soft and tender.
Until the veil has come but moments away,
the grave is calling, it is to late.

On the death bed, growing colder,
with whispered breath, I love you
I am proud of you, I hope you knew that…..
I am sorry.. I wish we could start over..

Then all goes silent…….. not another word is heard again.
Except in dreams, or memories floating
the clouds making faces and the haunt of wind still blows.
The smell of dying flowers, a grave near the pine.

All those wasted years while living could have been living a loving life.

Why???????

This poem is Copyright ยฉ shelby