My sweetheart once told me
about the passing of the moon,
how it takes an age to burn so bright,
then gone away too soon.
My father once told me
about the whisper of the wind,
how ghosts are soldiers left to die,
in brutal war's rescind.
My shaman once told me
about collective memory loss,
how it takes an age to build a kingdom,
which swiftly turns to moss.
My teacher once told me
about coincidental beauty,
how love is found in patient bliss
and custodial duty.
My pen-pal once told me
about how all of life is work,
how you must toil, toil, toil the fields,
only to end up hurt.
My mother once told me
about the truth found on the coast,
how in landlocked state, she buried thought
and missed my father the most.
My blackout friend once told me
how he re-invented sin,
how truth is but an echo of thought
and great delusion's twin.
The news anchor once told me
about the falling of the towers,
how brothers fell under the mythic spell
of dehumanising powers.
My electrician once told me
about the sounds of abandonment,
how a million memories within the halls,
are now but histories spent.
My garden gnome once told me
about God within the weather,
how we traded in moonlit ponds
for car seats made of leather.
My psychologist once told me
about living with depression,
how it takes an age to face the day
and a second for night's oppression.
My failed love agreed with this
as she turned to walk away,
and for all the words I'd written down,
I had nothing left to say.
Different people I've known in my life. Most of them are real, whatever is left after that may also be real too.
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