July 20, 2016


Chasing her ghost
to the ends of the earth
he trailed a whisper

Kissing her voice
he was a strange Bono
singing his own choir’s echo

Pursuing the mist
until there was at last
an end to his pacing

For he saw his past
a trek too harsh, too lone
hiding from the same
voice he sought so long

But there is more
that I must write to you
He sold his fields
I lifted my glass to you

I was not him
he saw and took new dreams
I am too grim
keeping these paper screams.


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