(A lone voice whispers)
The last time I saw you in an old photograph you lovingly sent
I held it up close
Perused and smelled your enchanting scent
But now you've gone into the long shadows and barren fields
Filled with wild rivulets of opinions which sing painful love songs filled with discontent
I sometimes in this great golden silence wonder
Where did that golden hair girl go to pitch up her extraordinary tent
Was it in an encampment surrounded by hypnotised writers
Who hang love-struck on her every word and follow her fantastic poetic depictions
Blindly pursuing wherever she went
Or was it somewhere even more secretive
Where grey walkers in silent gardens
Gather at midnight to lament and watch the silver moon ascend
As they all huddle together looking to the stars for answers and then cheer in unison and embracing whatever is sent
It's a particular conundrum that follows me around like a wrist bound lover
Or am I just its now anointed slave
Making me wonder about the impressions I once in the middle of living
Willingly gave
That once beautiful lady who's now probably surrounded by knaves who bombard her daily with endless blue waves
Did I through my quest upon the broken mountains
Like Roland Deschain of Gilead
Make the wrong decisions which will haunt me forever as it haunted him like Jake
A complicated juxtaposition simmering barely between love and hate
Did I hurt her too much and it's now too late
Did my relentless mission to find sacred answers to life at the top of my own Dark Tower
Made me lose someone so beautiful and powerful
As I walked past her blossoming Indian Paintbrush flower
I guess as I grow older and as my life gets colder
When eventually in a few years when I stand before God and as he reads my life's great work
Contained in that occult golden shimmering folder
I can only hope and pray he doesn't say
I sent you someone so beautiful that your soul so desperately needed
To help you live a good life filled with so much love and fun
Why did you walk away my son
When all you needed to do was just reach out and hold her
Copyright John Duffy
I rather enjoyed creating this raw and emotional piece. Watching old classics in Black and White from the early throes of film-making inspires such prose. Salute.
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