After Twenty-Five Years

When you last saw me, some twenty-five years ago,

I was a different man, not just younger, but different,

and it was a time of chasing, a time of letting go,

and you were my victim on the Road To Decadent.

I can see your face, shocked by what I said as I was to say it,

and it was no more confusing for you than it was for me,

now that I can admit the truth, that I finally got past it.

But I can tell by your eyes you haven’t, you were never set free.

Yes, you’ve lived, you’ve worked, you’ve gotten on with life,

and I believe there are few as brave and proud as you.

That is much like your father, and it made you a good wife,

and you adopted the son who could not be born from the womb.

I saw the video clip and I’m sure you don’t know

I heard the whispers and I saw from the corner of my eyes

if only on occasion in the gravity of full moon glow,

and when love is crestfallen and suffers and cries.

I heard you then, and I hear you now, only faintly today,

like the weak signal of a radio station in the distance.

It’s a place I can briefly visit but I cannot stay,

it’s the point of awful pain and least resistance.

Advertisements