A Song To Myself by Walter Durk SignUp
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Theme: Aging Share This Page
A Song To Myself
by Walter Durk
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  He sits quietly in a chair in this two-bed room
fine silver strands combed above a stubbly face,
a distant look of satisfaction
now that the heavy iron doors
have slammed shut
when in the mind
he speaks to God
of reality
and drinks deep
of a flowing nectar

Weary from a long journey
a road traveled one-hundred times,
now a tremulous feather
drifting on the wind.
How we dreamt then,
long ago
encircled by blankets of love,
cycling with wind and sun
against our skin

Snow on the mountainside melts
while wet tears flow
to the mirrored lake below
reflecting a golden moon
a ghost of himself.
Calm still
frogs interrupt,
crows black as bins of coal
disappear

I come to seek you
longing for Egyptian Gardens
after these halcyon years
comb my hair
while I comb yours
shave my face
while I touch yours
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April 15, 2007
More By: Walter Durk
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