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The trumpets whisper of yesteryears,
Through the shores of angels.
My spirit withers—disappears
With the faces in the walls.

I cannot erase the solitude;
The sighs that wilt my belief
In the Heaven I once viewed,
That sweeten the kiss of grief.

And why must the stars bleed
This night of shades that feed
Upon what was—what may have been,
And what can never be again?

When my life ended that day,
There were words left to say.
Now my mind wanders in your tears,
With a voice that no-one hears.

I die anew; I die beyond choice
With your kiss inside my voice.
I cannot hear you as you weep,
But I can be in the veil of sleep.

In your dreams, that you forget
I share my scars and my regret.
We kiss for the last time every night,
And where I go, there is no light.

© 2021 Marten Hoyle