The Golden Hour
All your fire warm and bright
On your face inside a frame
You heard my voice - you turned to look
I never saw you again the same
I call your name
But there’s nothing left to say
No there’s nothing left to say
In the golden hour before you slipped away
I realized I was only one at the long end of your array
Wind at your back carries the train horn
And the crows break from a tree
At the long pause and a deep breath
As your scarf breaks free
What else can I be
When there’s nothing left to say?
No there’s nothing left to say
In the golden hour before you slipped away
I realized I was only one at the long end of your array
©2016 Paul-John Moeller