Raspberries

This is the last love song
There will be no more heartache
Smeared across the bed frame
The sighs of contentedness will be scrubbed
Clean off of those damn sheets

This is the final church hymn
The gods will turn their copper hands
Over and let their broken children fall
They will make the red sun weep
And drown us all

This is the irrevocable dirge
Tears will not fertilize the earth
And grow ripe little raspberries
The silence that follows will be deafening
To all who slice their own hands

This is the concluding lullaby
I will breathe no more
in this valley seeping with opportunities
The corpse that I will be leaving behind
Will turn into glass in the wind

Goodbye.