Wednesday, February 17, 2016

The 4th of January, 1985

There are still the poems, yet no paintings,
only me of course, creating myself alone this way.
Too many days thinking, un-heard rantings,
but this was me too of course, my little reflection.
Every long conversation, the end of the day,
I would listen forever, to find a right direction.

Still I listen and still I remember, writing,
none of this possible without you, do you mind?
Too late now, the words are here, too inviting,
though they wander, every road leads back to you.
It's this I've found and other things I may find,
and other collectibles too, remembered and true.

Excuse me, have we met? No, you remember!
The days haven't been that long and so good!
Perhaps you will think this too, some December,
or the 4th of January? Was that day something?
You've found happiness and I trusted you would,
a heart like your own. Ours was all or nothing.

And the song plays on, if words make the song,
these two disparate worlds, yours and mine.
Twelve years, another twelve and three, is wrong?
Such is a life of judgements, wrong impressions.
Some day this might all make sense. That's just fine.
Until then, excuse me, for the little digressions.

Brian Francis Hudon
July 13, 2014

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