The night
quietly gathers
one last
time,
as the
sun slowly disappears,
I will
never see your
vast,
luscious valleys,
never
taste the sweetness
of your
swift running streams,
never
hear the sound
of your
softly rustling leaves
blowing
in the cool, gentle, breeze,
never
find the peace of your
distant,
fading solitude,
never
know the mystery of your
intoxicating
touch;
should have left well enough
alone,
should
have let it die,
a friend
indeed is far better
than a
lover gone,
yet
sometimes weakness
overcomes
strength,
sometimes
dreams are more
than can
be resisted;
some things really are better
left
unsaid;
and that is all
which can
be said,
now it
shall be no more,
just as
so many others
which
were but are not,
nothing,
nothing at all,
simply a
fading mist,
a slight
murmur among
the daily
buzz,
goodbye
my love
that
never was;
I am sorry.
.
.
.
.
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