The Final Spring.

Once, there was inspiration at my fingertips
and words wove themselves beautifully,
each with a simple, kind purity
and warmth was all around me.
But those words have withered,
inspiration draws back from me and I am
cold. My hands reach for that
old
comfort
but my touch is limited.
My muscles strain and you are
gone
in one faerie sigh,
leaving upon me immortal wounds.
Fear congeals and it is all I will ever know,
and the hollow pain that follows,
betrothed to red-rimmed eyes.
There was a part of me that would like to have known you
but my reflection in your eyes
is more than I could ever bear.
You are a rose.
I, a weed,
already decaying in this final Spring.
You are beautiful
and I...
I am already dead.