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The Last Song


by Darryl Price


Things we used to say. All of you who 
dared to choose to be strangers, shame on 
you. All of you who become strangers, 
through no fault of your own, I'm sorry. 
Please. Don't make it any harder. The 
colorful, secret things we used to 

say in our clothes. All of you who let 
our love grow cold under your touch, all 
the stolen firewood in the world can't 
warm your hands now. The last poem. All 
of you forced to endure the hateful, 
stretched bitterness of poisonous paths, 

your place at the table is not forlorn, 
but gladly ready. The things we 
used to say proudly to one another. 
Those things we used to say out loud. 
The last song. The last poem. All of 
you thrown into the wilderness of 

constant sadness, come as you are, you 
will not be turned away from us. The 
very last song is only that. It 
will begin again somewhere. You will 
know it when you hear it. You don't have 
to study any arcane art of 

cosmic recognition to listen 
to your own heart. So what if there are 
seven heavenly chakras you can 
run and climb like monkeys? There are sweet 
fussy, fuzzy little bees and amazing 
ballet dancing rivers and 

wild throngs of gorgeous trees you can meditate 
with. They can also take you 
up the neurological ladder 
to meet with the clouds and stars, if you 
will only let them. Invite them. Accept 
their simple invitations sent 

to you on the wind. We used to say 
things like that. All of you who choose stubborn 
greedy silence right now, we need 
you to know our hope is always for 
you, too. Light and love, love and light, this 
magically beautiful miracle.    
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