The Last Word (Poetry)

I want to die with a pen warm in my hand
and the last word on the page
however scrawled and faint
and therefore hard to read
should be love.

I hope by then there will be nothing left of rage
it would have trickled clean away like sand
and all my drifting thoughts will feed
contentedly, without complaint
on memories of love.

There will be nothing more I need
the third act done and time to leave the stage
my lines all said, what follow then unplanned
will be pure nostalgia — expressed without restraint
a gathering of ghosts
                                I used to love.