When the last piece goes away

Meditating deep, mumbling to the wind, one day I found myself passing your old stone cottage.

That was when springtime still welcomed our memories and the rosary’s of the past shock in our hands.

But now lonesome dark comes to harmonise with despair, and dreadful hands lift up to praise the fear in visions face. All is taken by the noise of titanic silence, and you my dear friend, sit in a geriatric chair, in a country called “Care”?

Ah, but we knew the armies of youth when our laughter and tearful fooling shook the heavens, and yes, you made rainbows longer than could be measured.

Dullness covers your face now and a tense doubt floods my mind; ‘Could anything be more unthinkable than this?’

The armies of youth dissolve into the armies of damnation, and we disappear into an old London fog. Sometimes music can still be heard coming from that London fog; who cares if its; “Keep the home fires burning” or, “All you need is love”?

The Writer with the mask has written us into trust, and so we board the ghost train of obedience. A Jigsaw or a merciless mimic of life?

Be assured, I shall be with you till the last piece goes away.

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