poetry

The day my MUSic died

I was just one year old when JFK was cruelly

taken, from Camelot formed and doomed like

myth-

i-

cally missed companion.

The day my music died was quite an-

ot-

her: a uni-

man I found myself: an ironing-

board stalking easy day:

the news on terrifying radio as Lennon

lost his right to be the man he’d

grown to be.

The sentiment of loss hit my soul so deep

I never quite recovered from the seep-

ing sadness whenever I played his songs –

or the weary

badness of be-

moaning such loss.

And like famous French cup-cake, these

moments and feelings did mark

me so badly, that the badness and sadness

I feel when I re-

call all the hurtness and pained of one simple

event – a man I never met, a music I used to sing,

a family I so wanted to hug to me close

and bring to my soul

and reach out to my heart

and hold together in woeful silence … and this cup-

cake of emotions is now prec-

isely

what drives me to re-

member and en-

join the spirits of the past: a love lost to the con-

fusions of inexpert times … how I’d reach

out my hand and ex-

tend to your wrongs and in-

juries and judgments, and beg that for-

givingness: the present I should’ve made of the past

of the heart that even so still is capable of

re-

minding beautiful

art.

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