Happy New Year.

 

Seasonal.

 

A poem that uses the cycle of the seasons as a metaphor for a relationship, capturing how love can be intense, fragile, and shaped by time rather than choice.

“We collided like two random raindrops in Autumn." Implies a chance meeting—unplanned, brief, but meaningful. Autumn often symbolizes change, maturity, or the beginning of an ending.

“Froze together in the cold Winter.”

Winter represents hardship, emotional stillness, or survival. “Froze together” implies closeness born out of necessity—two people holding onto each other during a difficult period.

“Then separated when Spring came.”

Spring usually symbolizes renewal and growth, but here it brings separation. This implies that when healing or change arrived, the bond could not continue—growth led them in different directions.

“Who knows what Summer may bring?”

Summer stands for hope, warmth, and possibility. The speaker doesn’t claim certainty, only openness to fate.

“Maybe we’ll meet again as the railway tracks sing.”

Railway tracks suggest journeys, departures, and parallel paths that may converge again. The “singing” gives the image a romantic, almost nostalgic tone—movement guided by destiny rather than control.

End notes:

The poem reflects on a love that was brief, real, and shaped by timing, not failure. It accepts separation without bitterness and leaves space for hope—that life’s paths may cross again when the season is right. It’s about impermanence, chance, and quiet faith in fate rather than longing or regret.

Title .

Seasonal.

(A lone voice whispers)

We once collided like two random raindrops in Autumn. Froze together in the cold winter and then separated when Spring came.

Who knows what Summer may bring? Maybe we'll meet again as the railway tracks sing.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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Redemption.

A poem exploring if love survives death.

The agony of waiting when the world moves on.

The cost of refusing to let go.

The tension between faith, hope, and exhaustion.

Asking a haunting question:

Is eternal love beautiful—or cruel—when it traps someone forever?

Would you wait?.

Title.

 Redemption.

 

(A lone voice whispers)

I crossed over in March. On the fifth, in the year of our Lord, 1902.

And all these years I've sat patiently waiting for you(Down that dark road, every second, whenever I think of you?

I've looked in old memories tins that beckoned.

Explored all the who knows linked to sin.

Chased paper boats, with endless time.

Just hoping she's coping and not broken in the Deep Divine.

But still perched upon this rock, I wait.

Even though the Mendli think I'm crazy, but my old Love still cuts me open.

Making me cling to an old life of wet dreams of a new beginning.

So angels, forgive me.

But hear me quick.

Take my hand and lead me home.

To her.

Give me the Star Fire if this can't happen or you can't do it.

For I fear I can no longer wait for the opening of that gate. So let me cross the burning sand barriers.

Step straight through the eternal fire.

For can waiting for true love be worth the price of this pain?

As one moves on, and one remains.

Show me a happy couple, and I'll show you the fire that ignites.

 And it's that light that I pray keeps carrying me on horseback .

Throughout all these endless nights.

As I wait, now impatiently, by these black gates.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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The Summoning.

 

A call to escape emotional imprisonment and choose connection, creativity, and love as radical acts. 

Asking:

Will you step away from a world that has forgotten what matters—and join me in preserving it?

It’s romantic, defiant, and quietly political, but most of all, human.

Title.

The Summoning.

(A lone voice whispers)

Would you follow me willingly into, The Great Hollow? 

If I pulled back the veil and showed you a way in?

To a wild world of verbs and contradictions.

Whispering like loose chord progressions as your old world receded into the distance.

To then escape from the weary grotto of penitentiary existence.

And unite in the Hollow as our last line of resistance.

From a world subjugated by darkness and no compassion.

Where Love is no longer viewed as a pièce de résistance.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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The Sadness and Madness of Mario.

 

This is a lyrical, confessional poem about loss, longing, and survival, framed as an inner monologue spoken to an absent, idealized lover (“Isobel”). 

The speaker is saying:

“I’m still alive because of the memory of you. 

Even though you’re gone, forbidden, or unreachable, thinking of you keeps me breathing. 

My life feels painful, repetitive, and mentally exhausting. I struggle with depression and memory. 

Love—especially the memory of our love—is both my refuge and my torment. I hope that one day, spiritually or after death, I will find peace, healing, and reunion.”

What the Poem Is Not.

It is not a simple love poem.

It is not about a current relationship.

Furthermore, it is not optimistic in a conventional way.

It is about staying alive through memory, imagination, and faith, even when reality feels unbearable.

A raw, emotionally intense meditation on how the memory of a lost love keeps a person alive while they struggle with depression, time, and the hope of eventual spiritual peace.

Title.

The Sadness and Madness of Mario.

(A lone voice whispers)

The reason I still breathe is you, my missing old Italian lover.

Lost somewhere away from me in here.

Hidden in one of the many blue portals.

In this, The Great In-Between.

But when this dreamy yellow sunset before me cries its last daily breath.

As it's truly spent.

At the end of this, one of my long, rigorous days of being stuck climbing over life's many memories.

Which seem covered with so many sharp barbed wires.

Lost in a recurring daydream that's all mine.

Which causes my heart to beat like an orchestral drum on fire.

Hypnotized with a spinning mind filled with whispering, spellbinding, enchanting, inspirational words.

Pleadings to my guardian angels to try to take me higher.

To help me put out all those painful, old, familiar desires.

I always think in these quiet moments.

In this silver silence about why my paradigm is unbearable.

This one I currently struggle to walk through.

Created by the Great Collector of all Divine Revenues

Are we, me and you, Isobel? My missing love.

Simply just two of the many silent prayers, blowing like tragic, lonely snowflakes.

Lost in the vastness of the eternal, endless night sky?

Infinite cries of broken songs carried by invisible soft hands?

Upward, tantalizing sacrifices offered like emotional shining dimes.

To the everlasting Light. As they spin like golden autumn leaves in full flight.

Borne aloft in the tempestuous whirlwind of Father Time's swirling grey dust.

Joining the symphonies of millions of hearts, calling out in unison.

In written or spoken rhymes.

All screaming for just someone in whom to love and trust.

Rapturous but maybe beating blue.

Does my heart still sing our now forbidden love songs and heartfelt prayers?

Loudly, like those unbearable screams once uttered at the great Battle of Waterloo.

You may ponder as your soul wanders.

Yet know this as a taste of my life's sweet kiss.

Inside I'll always know.

We shared an extraordinary moment of such divine bliss.

And as long as we quietly live apart or even die.

No matter where we both venture or go.

As long as the days are filled with life and the tired sun still rises. Sending out her golden rays to energize.

I can only hope my God-given prayers will be answered with my eventual spiritual rescue by my spirit guides and guardian angels when they stand before me.

Free of all their earthy disguises.

And even if all my life's sunsets have all disappeared and gone and died.

And an exotic dark knight stalks all the new lands.

I might then live within.

As those, I leave behind.

Stand by my graveside and cry as my soul glides by.

When those low drums of Heaven rumble and when my heart no longer burns.

As that old piano within my mind begins overflowing with poetic melodies and loudly sings.

If that familiar, eerie noise of lost love blows its silvery horns.

Once again, that drumbeat of fire that once burned pleads to return.

Announcing the arrival of the Dark Man from Depression's many farms.

Whom one should not mourn, wearing his fake crown of thorns.

I’ll dream this illustrious daydream I still treasure.

Of walking hand in hand with you.

On yellow beaches at midnight.

With the blue waves of the Pacific rolling in.

And as we stand looking deeply into each other's eyes.

With you as my eternally baptized queen, Isobel.

Married and living together forever in a beautiful dream.

A safe place I can only pray to dwell within.

Where my broken heart can heal as it no longer yells or screams

(C) Copyright John Duffy

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The Unsent Letter.

 

I've always missed your brown eyes since the day our love died.

That old magic and mystery has now been replaced by grief.

The thief of all happiness.

So this Christmas, I shall dance alone. Alone and holding my new world up like Atlas as I try to overcome this sadness.

I know it's crazy what life throws at us and makes you walk through an experience that changes your life forever.

Like a new Road to Damascus, but I still miss us.

The starlight.

Blue skies.

The joy and pain, but all that now remains.

Is the cold rain filled with broken songs, sung by cold, wet raindrops on my windowpanes.

For even though I conjured Fire, Air, Water, and Earth.

Prayed alone at my sacred altar as the Winter Solstice ended.

Lit frankincense candles.

I know now our silver circle is broken, so it's why I send this.

For some things are too hard to say when spoken.

So I wish you well.

To be reborn into the light and bawakened.

And not feeling heartbroken or burnt at the stake.

To break our old spell and remember the good times.

For we were all born to be happy, not to be filled with rain singing of our previous mistakes.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

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Augmented.

A cautionary whisper asking whether modern digital life has replaced spiritual awareness, subtly guiding people away from deeper truths while pretending to enlighten them.

It warns that modern technology—especially social media—acts as a kind of spiritual sedative that distracts people from faith, morality, or God. 

Exploring what we consume as “knowledge” online may actually mislead or corrupt us.

Through a new addition fixation.

Title.

Augmented.

(A lone voice whispers)

Have you been sedated by social media and turned away from your God?

By the Devil's New Encyclopedia?

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

 

Do you lucid dream too?

 

A poem that portrays lucid dreaming as a gateway: a conscious descent into the subconscious where a hidden reality reveals itself. 

It implies that this world isn’t fictional—it’s real, but experiential. 

You can’t see it unless you enter it.

Morpheus is the Greek god of dreams. 

Entering his seas means surrendering to the dream state. 

The “ever-flowing” aspect hints that dreams are constant, alive, and always accessible—if one knows how to enter them.

Title.

Lucid Dreaming.

(A lone voice whispers)

There's a world on top of this one no one ever sees.

Until they enter the deep waters of Morpheus's ever-flowing seas.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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Have you been hijacked by love?

 

Have you ever been hijacked by love?  

A poem exploring love as a divine yet destructive force—a seductive power that offers ecstasy, meaning, and escape, but at the cost of autonomy, peace, and emotional safety. 

The speaker knows this love may ruin him, yet he willingly submits because the intensity feels more alive than restraint.

It’s a poem about:

Obsession.

Erotic transcendence.

Emotional addiction.

The beauty and terror of surrendering to desire.

(A lone voice whispers)

Oh, Aphrodite,

As one of the mesmerizing queens of The Great In-Between.

You must know you just stand out, like a priceless jewel.

In any given room you suddenly choose to appear in.

Unbounded and unapologetic.

In daring red, black, or yellow.

Especially when you start whispering sonnets.

Linked to exquisite, lustful sins.

To arouse the soul.

As your dark eyes quietly glow.

More so.

As you speak of addictive things.

So erotically tangible and yet so sensuously dangerous.

Because they are electric. Ultimately deceptively mischievous.

But always so damned deliciously salacious. Things many could only dream of swallowing.

Like a pure drop of your own communion wine.

Your luscious green eyes.

Always glisten with a wild shimmer. Of Dante's Nine Spheres of Heaven.

Which echo of the divine 

In a mesmerizing, all-consuming reflection and crescendo of a lost Paradiso.

 An explicit tapestry of desire that moves even the Sun, Moon and all the watching, shimmering stars.

To bow down and watch as you tempt the beholden masses.

To always say Yes to your hypnotic invitations.

Regardless of the consequences.

And send to the slaughterhouse of Ares.

Her twin brother called, No.

As you open up new and ever-inviting doors.

Doorways to wanton new lands to explore.

You must know that you cast such hypnotic, visceral spells.

Overflowing with dark strands of lascivious temptations.

That many cannot deny. As their soul salivates, pleads, and yells.

Begging for a one-way trip.

To one of your rare layer cakes.

Of such rich, exquisite, opulent, exotic tastes.

This audit of plaudits is for you. Goddess of the Dark Skies.

Whose powers lay all cognitive emotions to waste.

Beckon forth strangers from all walks of life.

For a quick taste.

Ushering them through your alluring and welcoming crimson gates.

Which herald and whisper of unknown conquests in strange lands.

Entwined around a phenomenal thirst.

They can never afterwards sate.

A deep need where lost souls.

Now addicted.

Wallow and whimper.

Following the drumbeats from your ever-playing bands.

Calling out for new soulmates.

As they journey blindly towards you, knowingly to die.

For once you've breached those inner gates.

And opened those hidden doors.

With a hypnotic aroma of your intense supernatural glory.

Even though some who will be burned may come to hate.

They are all forever compelled.

Rhythmically to crave more.

As they line up adoringly with the meek.

Seeking a seat.

At your so engaging table.

A place they'd all run to.

If summoned by new lovers.

Willing and able to play.

Just to feel your luscious soft or sharp touch.

And to suffer your long reach.

If only for a climax a day.

A means to escape from this matrix's dichotomy.

 Of ever-spinning broken dreams.

They daily pray to breach.

So they too, like me, can begin.

Newly baptized by augmented emotions to preach.

While deep-diving.

Looking for lovers to indulge in new and old.

Tapestries of your carnal sins.

For I've been hijacked with a never-ending thirst for your love.

Now I'm condemned to never sleep.

Since the first day.

You walked in smiling. Into all my secret temples and inner keeps.

Oh. Goddess Aphrodite.

Hear my prayer. The queen who looks like Snow White but with red hair.

I just hope I meet you again somewhere. Not too far.

So you can purge my pitiful soul of all its previous miseries.

As you straddle and mount me.

As we climax, smiling.

Surrounded by all your hypnotic and sensuous.

Soul-soothing energy.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Questions from The Rift.

 

(A lone voice whispers)

Can souls just be fragments of our own ideas of heaven and hell?

Are we too metaphorical to ever understand, but just another human living within and under its dark, magical spell?

 Slowly waiting for spiritual understanding as it returns to just us?

 To really see whatever all our life will see?

Praying our Lord of choice, The Great Almighty, will set us free.

 Can this place, here, where you now visit and read from—but a brief refuge, carefully hidden in the slow-moving storms of time?

 A brief respite from what needs to be done?

A secret, well-beaten shack along the dark highways of deep spiritual fraternities?

 As we are now connected mentally?

Merging together slowly into a swirling eternity.

 From twisted emotional journeys unknown.

 To strangers and beloved people in distant foreign time zones.

From deep lessons to be learned.

To dark bridges that must be burnt.

 Our destinations could be greater than we can ever possibly know.

 To others, it's just a flicker.

 But to those blessed, maybe like you, it's but peaceful and rather slow.

 But no matter, for in the end. If we are lucky and truly blessed.

 We are all wrapped in shawls of grace and deep spiritual peace.

 For if all our misdemeanors we eventually fully confess.  

 We might hear the Almighty's beautiful voice again.

 It's an old song that some forget.

I have the lyrics if you want to read on.

Read on, they are free, and you don't owe me anything, such as royalty fees or any other debts.

“Take me as a symbol of your need for release.

 Replace your hatred instead with love.

 Where there is an injury. Look above.

 Where there is doubt. Have faith and don't give up.

 If despair appears. Remember hope.

 When darkness glides in. Let light absolve its sin.

 Where life becomes unhappy. Smile and constantly try to remember these words.

To sing.

 We are all tributaries leading back to the Holy River.

 Deep channels of our divine peace.”  

 So continually try to remember to help pardon your soul.

 Before you enter its beautiful gardens.

 For with inner forgiveness. We are reborn to eternal life.  

 Free. From all the burdens of our earthly life, emotional knife.

For I am beyond.

What your occupation entails.

 I just want to trace what your heartbeats regale.

 Your age is a pale horse I never want to see.

 I just want to hear your hopes and dreams.

 Will you risk all for love and spiritual glory to live an extraordinary life?

 Can you sit with me in the sunlight's shadows and reflect on life and smile again?

 Past all the doubts and disturbing grey rain?

 Do you still seek to sip a drop of Love's glorious champagne?

 Will you dance with me in feverish ecstasy as happiness revisits your inner domains?

 Will you be a smiling passenger on my fast-moving trains?

 Free and with no limitations. Ready for pleasure beyond refrain?

 Will you soar with me like two golden eagles?

 Above fast gossip whispering campaigns?

 What you answer doesn't matter to me.

 All your answers are simply for you.

 Can you say no to another to be true to your soul?

 Can you rise above false accusations and still keep your control?  

 Can you cherish your inner beauty?

 Beyond prying, unfriendly eyes.

 Rising internally like an angel when hope seems to die?

 Can you parade with failure like long-lost lovers and salute the scarred, silvery moon?

 As its bands play a dark, ominous, bleak tune?

 Your social status, I care about not.

 Only can you still rise and embrace your lot?

 After the long nights of despair and pain?

 Will you rise to challenge this life again?

 Will you stand like a sentry lost in despair's inferno flames?

 Or will you ask me to help extinguish its name?

 I don't care for all your academic labels. I just wanted to know if you're willing and able.  

 Or if you just need another seat at your table.

 For the company you keep in these dark days of empty, lonely moments.

 They are like great friends who speak like trendy, holy old poets.

For are we today simply an extension of that which resides within?

 A projection from the source.

 Will our souls forget us, the projection it now lives within, say in a thousand years, or will it still remember this version of us before we turn to dust?

 A rather deep thought from me.

A fragment of someone's soul speaking.

For our spiritual love could be like the Alpha and Omega.

 An eternal new beginning, but always ending in the end.

 Why do you mourn? It has always been so.

 Haven't I tried to show you the light?

 Haven’t I tried to hold you in the darkness of nights?

 So cast your fears to the stars. Feel eternity within and know this.

 If it doesn’t work this time. We will be reborn again.

 I am always sleeping inside. Just like way before.

 When your steps faltered. I carried.

 When you fainted. I nursed.

 Feel the embrace of the beloved gemstone of my light.

 The clasp of my deep love.

 It waits here breathless and speechless. 

Free from the clutches of demonic dust.

 Just filled and lined with unconditional trust.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

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Will you be calling to The Dearly Departed this Christmas?

 

A new poem that reads like a ritualistic invocation—half prayer, half spell—meant to reach someone who has died. 

Rather than telling a story, it enacts a moment: a speaker deliberately crossing a spiritual boundary to seek contact.

Title: The Call to The Dearly Departed.

“Dearly departed” is a traditional phrase for the dead, especially loved ones.

“The Call” suggests an active attempt to reach them, not passive mourning. 👉 The poem is about communication across death, not simply grief.

“(A lone voice whispers)”

Sets an intimate, secretive tone.

Implies solitude, vulnerability, and seriousness. 👉 This is a private ritual, not a public prayer.

Midnight, candle, spirit guides.

Midnight: a liminal time—between days, associated with heightened spiritual access.

White ceremonial candle: purity, protection, guidance.

Spirit guides: intermediaries between worlds. 👉 The speaker is intentionally entering a liminal space between life and death.

 “The Toll Keepers”

Likely symbolic figures who guard the passage between worlds (similar to mythological ferrymen like Charon).

They “usher” souls and allow passage. 👉 The speaker is asking permission to cross—or at least be seen across—the boundary.

The plea.

> “to hear my plea, and see me in sight tonight”

The speaker doesn’t demand a physical return.

They ask to be seen, heard, and acknowledged. 👉 This reflects longing, not control.

Spanish invocation.

> “Que algún Dios los bendiga… El Gran Intermedio.”

Translated meaning:

> May some God bless you and call and visit me in my dreams whenever I enter the Great In-Between.

The use of Spanish adds intimacy and emotional weight, possibly cultural or personal.

Dreams are the safe meeting place.

The Great In-Between = limbo, threshold, dream state, afterlife border. 👉 The speaker seeks reunion without breaking cosmic rules.

“So mote it be.”A traditional phrase from ritual magic and ceremonial prayer.

Means “so may it be” or “let it be done.” 👉 This confirms the poem as a formal invocation, not metaphor alone.

The poem expresses grief transformed into ritual. It’s about:

Love that persists beyond death.

Respectful longing for connection.

Accepting separation while still seeking comfort.

Using spirituality, memory, and dreams as bridges.

It is not about resurrection or obsession, but about:

> “Let me meet you where it is allowed.”

Title.

The Call to The Dearly Departed.

(A lone voice whispers)

Tonight at midnight.

With the help of my spirit guides, I light this white ceremonial candle.

And call for the bright light of The Toll Keepers to help usher my beloved, to hear my plea, and see me in sight tonight.

“Que algún Dios los bendiga y me llame y visite en mis sueños cada vez que entro, El Gran Intermedio.”

May some God bless you and call and visit me in my dreams whenever I enter, The Great In-Between.

So mote it be.

(C) 

Copyright John Duffy 

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Separation.

 

This poem is short but very symbolic, so its meaning comes more from imagery than from a literal story.

At its core, “Separation” is about loss, longing, and a broken bond that once felt pure and complete.

Here’s a breakdown:

“A lone voice whispers”

This sets a quiet, intimate tone. The speaker is alone, possibly grieving, speaking inwardly rather than aloud. It suggests isolation after separation.

“The rise of the Sun and Moon always reminds me. How much I still miss you.”

The sun and moon represent time, cycles, and inevitability. No matter how time passes or days and nights change, the speaker’s longing remains constant. The separation hasn’t faded with time.

“For we were like Adam and Eve before we were tragically deceived.”

This is the key metaphor. Adam and Eve symbolize innocence, unity, and a perfect bond before the fall.

“Before we were tragically deceived” suggests that:

Something external caused the separation. (temptation, lies, betrayal, manipulation, or a bad influence)

The speaker views the loss as tragic rather than malicious.

The relationship fell from innocence into pain, much like the biblical fall from Eden.

Overall meaning: 

The poem expresses mourning for a relationship that once felt pure, whole, and destined but was broken by deception or a loss of innocence. 

The speaker still loves and misses the other person, reflecting on what was lost.

Title. 

Separation.

(A lone voice whispers)

The rise of the Sun and Moon always reminds me. How much I still miss you.

For we were like Adam and Eve before we were tragically deceived.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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Have you felt synchronization?

 This poem uses religious and symbolic imagery to describe a love that is intense, imperfect, and dangerous, yet deeply meaningful.

“As mismatched as we were. We were perfect…”

This suggests two people who don’t logically fit together—perhaps different personalities, backgrounds, or values—but whose connection felt complete and right despite that mismatch.

“Even Archangel Gabriel blessed us.”

Archangel Gabriel is a divine messenger associated with purity, truth, and revelation. Invoking him implies the love felt sanctioned, sacred, or destined, as if it transcended ordinary human judgment.

“Me and my red rose.”

The red rose is a classic symbol of passionate love, beauty, and desire—but also of thorns. This hints that the love is both beautiful and painful, something cherished yet capable of harm.

“Who still takes me to dark places where devils go.”

This line shifts the tone. It suggests that this love pulls the speaker into emotional or moral darkness—perhaps obsession, temptation, destructive behavior, or inner turmoil. The love hasn’t ended; its influence still lingers.

“Such is the incredible power and magic of love.”

The poem concludes by acknowledging love’s dual nature: it can feel divinely blessed while simultaneously leading one into dark, dangerous places. Love is portrayed as powerful, enchanting, and uncontrollable.

Overall meaning

The poem reflects on a love that was:

Imperfect yet deeply fulfilling.

Sacred yet destructive.

Beautiful yet dangerous.

It suggests that love doesn’t have to be healthy or safe to feel real or magical—and that its power can blur the line between heaven and hell.

Title.

Have you felt synchronization?

(A lone voice whispers)

As tragically mismatched as we were. We were perfect in every sense that even Archangel Gabriel blessed us.

Me and my red rose.

Who still takes me to dark places where devils go.

Such is the incredible power and magic of love.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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Remembrance.

 

This poem is a personal elegy—a remembrance written to someone the speaker deeply loved who has died. Line by line, it reveals grief, love, guilt, and acceptance intertwined.

Here’s what it’s expressing in plain terms:

Loss connected to winter and Christmas

“Winter always reminds me of you… Especially the 24th of December.” Winter—and specifically Christmas Eve—marks the time of the person’s death. 

Holidays often intensify grief because they’re associated with family and togetherness.

A spiritual framing of death.

“When God said, ‘Come home, daughter. No more pain…’”

The speaker finds comfort in the belief that God took her to end her suffering. This frames death not as abandonment, but as release and peace.

Love that endures beyond death.

“I know you'll be leaving your loved ones, but your love will remain.”

The poem emphasizes that physical absence doesn’t erase emotional presence. Love continues to live on in memory.

Rituals of remembrance.

“I'll light another small white ceremonial candle.” Lighting a candle symbolizes mourning, remembrance, and ongoing connection. It indicates that the speaker actively honors her memory.

Grief mixed with gratitude.

“Yes, I could say I miss you, but…”

Instead of focusing only on pain, the speaker chooses to hold onto the joy of what they shared. This suggests a mature, reflective stage of grief.

Waves of longing.

“Whenever they push through.”

Grief isn’t constant—it comes in waves. The speaker acknowledges moments when sadness resurfaces.

Guilt and unresolved promises.

“I apologize for still being single…”

The speaker feels guilt for not moving on romantically, as if they made a promise to the deceased to continue living fully.

Irreplaceable love.

“But who's going to replace you?”

This isn’t just romantic love—it suggests a soulmate-level bond. The speaker feels no one could ever take her place.

Angel imagery and freedom.

“My Diamond and Kingdom… gained her angel wings.” Calling her “Diamond” and “Kingdom” shows how precious and central she was. Becoming an angel represents freedom from suffering and elevation beyond earthly pain.

The poem is about grieving a beloved woman (likely a partner) who died—possibly after illness—around Christmas. It reflects deep love.

Spiritual comfort.

Enduring connection.

Guilt about moving on.

Acceptance without forgetting.

It’s not just about missing someone—it’s about learning to live with love after loss.

So here it is. 

Title.

Remembrance.

(A lone voice whispers)

Winter always reminds me of you.

Especially the 24th of December, when God said, “Come home, daughter. No more pain. I know you'll be leaving your loved ones, but your love will remain.”

So tonight I'll light another small white ceremonial candle to remember you and all the sweet little things we used to do.

Yes, I could say I miss you, but we shared such beautifully incredible moments together that they sweep away the anxiety and longing.

 Whenever they push through.

I apologize for still being single even though I promised you in time I would try to move on and meet someone new.

But who's going to replace you?

My Diamond and Kingdom, who gained her angel wings to find freedom.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

    

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Longing

 

This poem is about a man who has accepted the end of a profound love but hasn’t emotionally let it go. 

He respects that the woman is married and that the relationship is over, yet his subconscious still holds onto what they once had. 

Dreams are the only space where that love survives.

It’s not about trying to reclaim her—it’s about mourning a love that never fully died inside him, even though life moved on.

The tone is wistful, tender, and restrained—more about quiet longing than regret or bitterness.

Title.

Longing.

(A lone voice whispers)

To the girl whose cross I once carried.

Like a reborn Jesus at Via Dolorosa.

Even though you're now married.

There's still a secret inside me.

Hidden so deep only my unconscious can find when it too has to sleep.

A secret I treasure and unconsciousness breathes into life. Through dreams that we are still husband and wife.

Oh, what I'd give for a few hours more to be under your power.

But our love quietly picked up its suitcase and walked out our door.

Leaving me to wallow in this.

My neverending Witching Hour.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.

New Beginnings.

 

This poem is less about predicting literal events and more about capturing a shared psychological, spiritual, and emotional moment at the edge of uncertainty—specifically the transition from 2025 into 2026.

 It blends apocalyptic anxiety, poetic intimacy, mysticism, and hope into a single meditation.

At its heart, the poem asks:

> Can human connection, creativity, and shared meaning survive a world that feels like it’s unraveling?

The speaker addresses you—the reader—as both a companion and a collaborator.

The relationship is intellectual, spiritual, and digital, born online and sustained through words. 

Against this bond stands a looming sense of collapse: political chaos, ideological division, spiritual loss, and fears of authoritarian futures.

The poem never answers definitively. Instead, it chooses hope as an act of faith, not certainty.

Apocalypse as Psychological, Not just Physical.

The “last days of 2025” aren’t a prophecy so much as a mental and cultural breaking point:

Fear of social collapse.

Information overload.

Political extremism.

Loss of shared truth.

Fire, thunder, and darkness symbolize consumption by desire, rage, ideology, or fear rather than literal destruction.

The Sacred Bond Between Writer and Reader.

“You and me.

The reader and writer.”

This is central. The poem treats reading and writing as:

An intimate act.

A spiritual covenant.

The speaker wonders whether the reader will keep returning—whether words still have the power to bind, awaken, and transform in a distracted, unstable world.

Creative and Spiritual Energy.

They symbolizes:

Creative hunger.

Intellectual arousal.

The desire to feel alive and connected.

This merges eros (desire) with mysticism, suggesting that creation itself is sacred and sensual.

Occult, Pagan, and Mythological Language.

References to:

Zeus.

King Solomon.

Athame (ritual knife).

Spirit guides.

“So mote it be.” These frame poetry as ritual magic—words as spells used to:

Fight darkness.

Preserve meaning.

Call hope into existence.

The poem treats belief—not doctrine—as survival.

Fear of Dehumanized Futures.

Lines about:

“vaccinated slaves or unvaccinated exiles”

“quantum-tattooed”

“New World Order”

These reflect anxiety over loss of autonomy, forced identities, and ideological sorting, not necessarily endorsement of a specific theory.

 It’s the fear of being reduced to labels rather than souls.

Hope as Defiance.

Despite everything, the poem insists:

The sun still shines.

The dead are remembered.

Creativity continues.

Connection remains possible.

Hope is fragile—but chosen deliberately.

The Ending Meaning.

“So mote it be. What will be, will be.”

This isn’t resignation. It’s ritual acceptance:

Acknowledging uncertainty.

Refusing despair.

Continuing anyway.

The poem ends like a spell cast into the future, trusting that words, imagination, and shared humanity might still matter.

In One Sentence

The poem is a sensual, mystical conversation between writer and reader about surviving cultural collapse through creativity, belief, and shared meaning—choosing hope even when the future feels dangerously uncertain.

Title.

New Beginnings.

(A lone voice whispers)

Some whisper, and will in secret occult circles, about these last days of 2025.

That humanity will fall in unruly, petulant desire.

Consumed and devoured by a blazing infectious fire, but what happens to you and me?

 Your mind and mine?

Do you still shiver inwardly at the vibrational thoughts of my words? 

Do they bind you submissively to always return?

Doomed forever to hovering above 

my prose, which screams to be heard with wide, eager eyes like a love-struck hummingbird.

Do you still tremble like when we first met over the internet?

Wanting the warm caress of loquacious re-introductions of new secret verbs?

Opening mystical golden gates to new poetic realms and their guile to bind us together.

Like love-struck Siamese twins.

If you can only hold your nerve.

Creating welcomed sins of dried sweat and sweet tributaries of deep-seated spiritual yearnings.

That makes your mind so damn wet.

Tales of the Supernatural: Light and Darkness filled with movement or stillness, sovereignty or loneliness.

New flames of innermost desires, contained in unspeakable words or unfamiliar names.

And use as our Zisurru poetic stories set asunder in the heavy footfalls of Zeus's approaching apocalyptic thunder.

To burn new white hurricane lanterns in Imagination's darkened Halls of Fame.

To live in hope of new life, an everlasting dance.

With a wet drop of a wild transmigration as our new Nexus, to savor in your mouth.

Like an intense-tasting holy communion wine.

A strong touch of such wantonness your voracious soul needs to carry to all empires.

You may visit.

In the North, East, West, or South.

As it swallows new stories with ravenous greed.

Will we still survive together in 2026 with such intellectual thoughts?

 You might still whisper and silently ask.

You and me.

The reader and writer.

“Does 'Will It Last?'” Echo in lucid dreams whilst waiting for that midnight call on New Year's Eve?

When we sing pagan songs of King Solomon through words, as we fight back the encroaching darkness.

With shining, drunk astral eyes, as our athame, our sacrificial knife.

Inwardly praying to always believe.

In love and light after that midnight.

Under the sharp eyes of the winter midnight sun, which, for her, so many lost souls, we know and love.

She will still shine even brighter as she quietly watches and grieves. 

As they sadly collect their angel wings as they leave.

Who knows, my child?

Everlasting hope and peace could arrive as one, so we could conquer this new crazy normal and continue to rise.

Or it could all go wild and turn into a new dark nuclear history.

Where dreams and people are consumed and defiled as Good and Evil, battle for victory.

And apart, we may have to survive on mean streets as quantum-tattooed vaccinated slaves or unvaccinated exiles.

In a New World Order, called A Fool's Paradise Without Any Known Borders.

But either way, know this.

May your spirit guides lead you to continued health and safety across all fast-flowing political wars.

Waters.

Famine or social disorders.

So in 2026, we can still share our much-loved algorithms in all our holy quarters.

So mote it be. What will be, will be.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.

 

The Judgemental

Judgment and cruelty live just beneath the surface of people or society. They are animalistic, destructive, and always waiting for an excuse to be unleashed. 

Only restraint keeps them from causing harm.

It’s a warning poem:

About mob mentality.

Moral superiority.

How easily judgment turns into violence.

It reflects exhaustion with human cruelty.

A sense of foreboding.

An awareness that civilization is fragile.

The poem warns that judgmental instincts are savage forces lying in wait beneath consciousness, and if unleashed, they will act brutally and without mercy.

It portrays judgmental thoughts, impulses, or entities as dangerous, restrained forces lurking beneath the surface—in a “Lower Dimension.” 

They may not be active yet, but they are waiting, tense and eager to break free.

The poem suggests that judgment itself is a primal, animal instinct that must be consciously restrained.

Title.

The Judgmental.

(A weary voice whispers)

In the Lower Dimension, they wait. Beasts, waiting like chained-up wild boars to be let loose.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

Judgment and cruelty live just beneath the surface of people or society. They are animalistic, destructive, and always waiting for an excuse to be unleashed. 

Only restraint keeps them from causing harm.

It’s a warning poem:

About mob mentality.

Moral superiority.

How easily judgment turns into violence.

It reflects exhaustion with human cruelty.

A sense of foreboding.

An awareness that civilization is fragile.

The poem warns that judgmental instincts are savage forces lying in wait beneath consciousness, and if unleashed, they will act brutally and without mercy.

It portrays judgmental thoughts, impulses, or entities as dangerous, restrained forces lurking beneath the surface—in a “Lower Dimension.” 

They may not be active yet, but they are waiting, tense and eager to break free.

The poem suggests that judgment itself is a primal, animal instinct that must be consciously restrained.

Title.

The Judgmental.

(A weary voice whispers)

In the Lower Dimension, they wait. Beasts, waiting like chained-up wild boars to be let loose.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.

The Goddess from Glastonbury Tor

 

At its core, this poem is a mythic, symbolic celebration of renewal, using Glastonbury Tor as a sacred focal point and the Goddess as a personification of Spring, rebirth, and spiritual cleansing.

The Goddess as Spring and Life-Force.

The “Goddess” represents:

Spring itself.

The Great Mother and life giver. A solar, regenerative power that returns after winter.

She is described as:

“Life-giving.”

A “warrior queen”—not ”gentle only, but active, powerful, and transformative.

Bringing warmth, fertility, and light back into the world.

This blends pagan, Celtic, and mythological imagery, common around Glastonbury, which is often associated with ancient goddess worship, Avalon, and ley lines.

Winter vs. Spring = Death vs. Rebirth.

Winter symbolizes:

Darkness.

Stagnation.

Spiritual coldness.

Emotional or inner numbness.

Spring symbolizes:

Renewal.

Awakening.

Cleansing.

Hope and new beginnings.

Lines like:

> “As Winter’s toys go back in his box”

Suggest winter is a temporary force that must step aside once its role is done.

The Vernal Equinox as Sacred Turning Point.

The Vernal Equinox is central:

Day and night are equal—balance is restored.

It marks the true beginning of the new cycle.

Nature “wakes up.”The equinox is personified with:

Robins singing.

Bells ringing.

The cockerel crowing at dawn.

All of these are traditional symbols of awakening and transition.

Purification and Spiritual Fire.

The “Purple Flame” and “molten arrows” represent:

Spiritual purification.

Burning away the residue of winter.(darkness, despair, stagnation)

Divine energy acting like a forge to reshape life.

This implies an inner transformation as much as an outer seasonal one.

Glastonbury Tor as the Sacred Source.

Glastonbury Tor functions as:

A spiritual beacon.

A mythic “heart” from which renewal spreads.

A meeting point between earth, sky, and spirit.

The Goddess’s power radiates outward:

> “Spreading from Glastonbury Tor / To all”

The Call to the Reader.

The poem ends by directly addressing you:

Will you hear the call?

Will you allow yourself to be “purged” and “reborn”?

This makes the poem not just descriptive, but invitational—asking the reader to:

Let go of inner winter.

Embrace renewal.

Begin again.

So here we have it.

A seasonal myth, a spiritual allegory, and a personal invitation to transformation, rooted in ancient symbolism but aimed at modern inner renewal.

Title.

The Goddess from Glastonbury Tor.

(A lone voice whispers)

Can you hear her faintly call / The Goddess now seated at Glastonbury Tor?

Spring / The life-giving goddess of all.

The warrior queen to emerge from / The deep depths of winter's cold.

To rally round the young and old / On the Vernal Equinox / As Winter's toys go back in his box.

And the warm blooming of Spring can begin / As choirs of Robins sing.

With the Goddess and Queen / Sharing her life-giving rays / To all in sight / Day or night.

Summoning forth the Purple Flame / To purge all winter's darkness that remains / All in the Great Creator's name.

Shooting molten arrows from the midday orb / To relight the cycle and the great forge.

In the many sleeping / Awaiting her ringing yellow bells / To break the winter's spell / When dawn's Vernal Equinox cockerel sings.

Welcoming the Goddess / Great Mother / Of all living things.

Awaiting the moment for her / To open her angel wings / So new life can begin.

Spreading from Glastonbury Tor / To all / With her New Year's weapons of war.

Will you hear her faint call / Once more / And purge your soul.

 From winter's cold / To be reborn.

With the blowing / Of her Great Golden Bannerman's horn?

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.

 

Lower Dimension Dreaming.

 

This poem reads like a quiet, inward meditation on loss, especially grief tied to a birthday. 

(A lone voice whispers)

This sets the tone: the speaker is isolated, speaking softly—suggesting private thought, mourning, or inner dialogue rather than celebration.

It’s your birthday today. / A day of happiness and tears.

Birthdays usually symbolize joy, but here they also trigger sorrow. This strongly suggests the person being addressed is absent or deceased, and the birthday brings both loving memories and pain.

Juxtapositions and revisions.

This line points to contradictions and rethinking—how life places opposites together (joy and grief) and how the speaker keeps revisiting or rewriting their understanding of events, perhaps replaying memories or regrets.

Why is life unfair?

A direct expression of grief and frustration. This is the emotional core: a feeling that what happened should not have happened.

Why doesn’t God care, or are you now with him?

Here the poem moves into spiritual questioning. The speaker struggles with faith—wondering whether God is indifferent or whether the loss has meaning through an afterlife.

Standing by his side, up there?

This line softens the anger into longing. It imagines the lost person at peace, close to God, which offers a fragile comfort even amid doubt.

Overall meaning

The poem captures a moment where grief, love, faith, and doubt coexist. It doesn’t resolve the questions—it sits inside them. The “lower dimension” of the title may suggest life on Earth as a limited, painful plane compared to a hoped-for higher spiritual existence.

In short, the poem is about remembering someone on their birthday, confronting the unfairness of their absence, and wrestling with belief as a way to cope with loss.

Title.

Lower Dimension Dreaming. 

(A lone voice whispers)

It's your birthday today.

A day of happiness and tears.

Juxtapositions and revisions.

Why is life unfair?

Why doesn't God care, or are you now with him? Standing by his side, up there?

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.

Seeking Absolution.

 

This poem reads as a confessional elegy—a blend of grief, guilt, and spiritual longing after a separation or loss.

Title: “Seeking Absolution”

Absolution is forgiveness, specifically in a religious sense. From the outset, the speaker frames their pain not just as loss, but as something they feel morally or spiritually responsible for. This suggests regret, self-blame, or remorse.

“(A lone voice whispers)”

The whisper signals intimacy, shame, and isolation. Confessions are whispered, not proclaimed. The speaker is alone with their conscience.

“Sometimes the rhymes cry for you to return and join our choir, but now we sing alone.”

The “rhymes” represent thoughts, memories, or even poems themselves. They want the lost person to return.

A “choir” implies harmony, unity, and shared purpose—once plural, now singular. The absence has fractured something communal or intimate.

“Singing from our hymn sheet. / The Song of the Broken.”

A hymn sheet suggests something once sacred or shared. Now the only song left is one of damage and sorrow. The speaker isn’t improvising joy; they’re repeating pain.

“About you.”

This abrupt line isolates the cause of the suffering. Everything—song, prayer, guilt—centers on this one person.

“Oh, Lord. Forgive me. / For I have sinned.”

This is a direct confession. The speaker believes they have done wrong—possibly causing the rupture, the loss, or the pain. The repetition reinforces sincerity and desperation.

“Oh, Lord Almighty. / Forgive me.”

Invoking God’s power emphasizes how heavy the guilt feels. Human forgiveness may no longer be possible, so the speaker turns upward.

“Amen.”

The prayer ends formally, as if sealing the confession. But “Amen” also implies acceptance—that the speaker may never receive the forgiveness they seek, yet must still ask.

The poem explores grief mixed with guilt. The speaker mourns someone who is gone—emotionally or physically—but unlike simple loss, this absence is haunted by self-blame. The religious imagery suggests the pain has crossed into the spiritual realm, where the speaker feels unworthy, broken, and in need of absolution.

It’s not just about missing someone.

It’s about believing you are the reason they’re gone.

Title.

Seeking Absolution. 

(A lone voice whispers)

Sometimes the rhymes cry for you to return and join our choir, but now we sing alone.

Singing from our hymn sheet.

The Song of the Broken.

About you.

Oh, Lord. Forgive me.

For I have sinned.

For I have sinned.

Oh, Lord Almighty.

Forgive me.

Amen.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.

Have you too felt a Rupture?

 This poem is a short, intimate expression of grief after emotional separation, not just the loss of a relationship but the loss of what that person represented.

Title: “Have you too felt a rupture?”

A rupture is a break or tear—suggesting something once whole has been suddenly and painfully split. 

This frames the poem as being about emotional damage rather than simple sadness.

“(A lone voice whispers)”

This stage direction sets a tone of isolation and vulnerability. The speaker isn’t declaring their pain loudly; they’re confiding it, almost to themselves.

“I still miss you, you know.”

A direct, conversational line. It implies unfinished business—things left unsaid or feelings that persist despite separation.

“Not your looks or smiles. / Just you.”

This clarifies that the loss isn’t superficial or physical. The speaker misses the essence of the person—their presence, identity, and emotional connection.

“The serenity of being around you. The peace and tranquility.”

The loved one functioned as an emotional anchor. Their presence calmed the speaker, proposing the relationship provided safety or emotional balance.

“For you once brought me peace, and now I'm left alone.”

The contrast emphasizes loss. Peace has been replaced by loneliness, reinforcing the rupture implied by the title.

“Now our love lives dead. In realms of the newly Deceased.”

This metaphor treats the relationship as something that has died. “Newly Deceased” suggests the grief is fresh, raw, and unresolved—the speaker is still in the early stages of mourning.

The poem captures the quiet aftermath of a breakup or emotional loss, where the speaker mourns not romance or attraction, but the emotional refuge the other person provided. It’s about longing, solitude, and the painful realization that something deeply meaningful is gone—recently and irreversibly.

Title.

Have you too felt a rupture?

(A lone voice whispers)

I still miss you, you know.

Not your looks or smiles.

Just you.

The serenity of being around you. The peace and tranquility.

For you once brought me peace, and now I'm left alone. Now our love lives dead. In realms of the newly Deceased.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.

The Poet from Sheol.

 

 A poem that reads like a manifesto delivered from beyond the grave—a warning and a challenge from someone who has already crossed the final boundary.

Title: “A Poet from Sheol”

Sheol is an ancient term for the realm of the dead. By choosing it, the poet frames the speaker as a voice outside time and society, someone who has nothing left to lose and therefore can speak truth bluntly. This immediately gives the poem a prophetic, almost mythic authority.

“(A ghostly voice whispers)”

The whisper suggests urgency and intimacy—this isn’t a loud sermon but a personal warning meant for those still alive.

“Try to be rebellious and monolithic. / Magnificent and unspecific.”

These lines intentionally pair contradictions.

Rebellious vs. monolithic:

Be defiant, but grounded. Stand firm in who you are, not scattered by trends.

Magnificent and unspecific:

Aim for greatness without being easily categorized. Don’t let labels reduce you.

This suggests resisting the pressure to be neatly defined or marketable.

“Break the rules. / Fool the Gatekeepers.”

The Gatekeepers symbolize institutions, norms, critics, algorithms, traditions—any system that decides whose voice matters. The poem urges creative subversion, not reckless chaos, but clever resistance.

“The toll keepers of society.”

This deepens the metaphor: society demands payment—conformity, silence, safety—in exchange for acceptance. The poem encourages refusing that cost.

“Be unique. / Share those stories you keep, and never go quietly.”

This is the emotional core:

Your uniqueness matters.

Your untold stories matter.

Silence is a kind of death before death.

“Never go quietly” echoes Dylan Thomas’s “Do not go gentle into that good night,” reinforcing defiance in the face of mortality.

“Before you too finally go to sleep.”

“Sleep” is a gentle euphemism for death, bringing the poem full circle. The speaker reminds us that time is limited—and regret is permanent.

Overall Meaning.

The poem is a call to creative and personal courage delivered from the perspective of someone who can no longer act—only warn.

Its message:

> Live boldly. Speak honestly. Resist systems that flatten you. Tell your stories while you still can.

The voice from Sheol isn’t asking for rebellion for its own sake—it’s urging authenticity before it’s too late.

Title.

A Poet from Sheol.

(A ghostly voice whispers)

Try to be rebellious and monolithic.

Magnificent and unspecific.

Break the rules.

Fool the Gatekeepers.

The tollkeepers of society.

Be unique.

Share those stories you keep, and never go quietly.

Before you too finally go to sleep.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

The monologue of the spirit from The Great In-Between.

A dramatic, mystical lament expressing:

• Longing for a lost or unreachable lover

• Fear of being forgotten or unloved

• Hope for reunion in spiritual realms if not in life

• The blending of memory, dream, fantasy, and metaphysics

It’s both a love letter and a ghost story—a message from someone who feels removed from the world yet bound to one person with overwhelming devotion.

The ultimate purpose of the monologue—

to avoid being forgotten.

(A lone voice whispers)

Lost in this unrepentant noise of an old life, as it still seduces my mind.

Consuming and beguiling, I speak to you from the other side as these magical words, conjured from the deep crimson lips of my inner mind.

Reaches out to hypnotise thine.

Words which once lay lost but are now found in the transient music of the unknown and forlorn.

How my inner light shines ever brighter, as it repeats these beautifully written words with my softly spoken voice, above the unrepentant noise.

My skin comes alive like the Great Canopies in unexplored jungles, in the deepest of Africa, at dawn.

I just now dream a continuous fantasy which infuses my bloodstreams and veins with copious energy.

There have always been subtle moments throughout long-lost days

and cold nights, when that irresistible longing and need seemed too much.

When I pined hourly for just a feel of your touch.

Would I be abandoned like another slave to the four winds by unrequited love, forever burning?

Spinning endlessly in desires, salacious red fires?

Just hoping to walk within your shadows or sate my thirst and hunger.

With just a glimpse of you passing by my pale white window, I still look from.

Just to see you standing by the well by that old apple tree, to break me free from this dark dream.

As I walk, trapped in a never-ending limbo.

It's where I turn to each night as I think of you and stare out my scrying glass, which I use as my second shadow.

How do I reach you?

Those old road maps and contacts are still yours to give.

For they are your deep secrets, you still purposely keep from these lands.

Those beautiful grounds on which you still stand.

There may be uncertainty and unexplored hordes and mountains

to conquer between us.

"Grimoires of Gossip," whispered in the dark to keep us apart.

But still, I send this message out.

If you're hearing this, Josephine.

We’ll now meet in the Astral planes of dreams.

Where we’ll need no more formal introductions as we already know our own truly secretive god-given names.

In the many still alive treacheries which may still surround your broken heart like She'ol, as you traverse this world.

Within your living Universe, when you feel totally lost and so lonely.

Know my white candle still burns even through all the rain clouds and storms, when you feel trapped, and breathlessness spins over your overthinking emotions.

Remember me thinking of you.

Somewhere just over the world's many oceans.

Just standing patiently under that red old lamp post by some Red Churches' wrought iron old gates.

No matter how late.

Maybe I’ll wait forever, but if I'm gone before you arrive.

If I’ve waited too long, and I eventually disappear and ascend.

I'll leave you a red envelope under the white stones by the gatepost on the left.

In it is my road map to the stars, where I will now stay and reside and will always wait.

Where I will now stand by an old alabaster church, I will create and build and wait under its white lamp post.

By its sparkling wrought iron old gates.

Remember me.

(C) Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage policy.