And blank pages.
Nothing to account for
A life that was lived.
The still warm body
Looked peacefully at rest
Endowed with an eternal sleep.
Yet, still floating behind those closed eyes,
Lingering as if to prolong their goodbyes,
Were a myriad fluttering dreams.
One of youth,
Like a young girl chasing butterflies,
In a garden blooming with flowers,
With the calm trickling of a spring nearby.
One of romance,
As the first kiss of a young love,
Meeting under a star lit sky,
With secrecy moonlighting as it’s own blanket,
Braving the winter chills.
One of a new beginning,
Post the reality check of middle age,
The spirit of ambition reignited
As the straws of an empty nest are kindled.
One of profound grief,
Changing life, as one knew it, forever,
Going the remaining distance alone,
With no parter in this last endeavour.
As last but not the least of dreams,
Death comes as the end.