A Blues For Pamela
you creak with every age
wracked movement,
drawing breaths you pray are not your last—
if you pray at all within the fog of your lost world.
your eyes shine a light, but what light
isn’t clear:
whether it’s the madness peering out,
or the spark of life burning on, so brightly in your dark.
so much lively energy, so little sense
in its direction;
perhaps the words for my own stone, whenever it’s laid.
time, and who there is to bury me, will tell.
meanwhile, in you I see the future,
and the harrowing pain
of a past mislead by passions damped, true love misspent,
and heaven’s wandering fire—imagination—cast aside.
such a waste, such tragedy, rewritten
every morning,
when you rise to taste the warmth of each new day
unable to remember even a little of the one that passed before
© 2003 Peter Geoffrey Hynes
