My friend Herbert Moonslot

Something whispers tonight
into this cold autumn wind,
a shadow on the sea,
a face looming out of the tree trunk bark,
this cold ancient wind murmurs your name,
and fallen leaves rustle.

Remember, the long winding country lanes,
the back road glory trails,
that you said would always be there for us,
yes, that’s what you said,
but, if that’s so, then where are you?
What good are promises now?
Your songs and poetry live inside so many people,
your love sustains their disappeared hopes for tomorrow.

Mr. Magic, Mr. Manic,
you who trod that dark comedy dirt,
and you, yes You,
who saw what the plyers of tomorrow would take away from us.
Have you heard of the agonies that came with the roads and the concrete idols?
Did you foresee the age of never,
and this long dying, lying?

Of course you did,
you who dreamed into our laughter
and knew when to say goodbye!

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