Winter, Highland Mills

By: David O’Keefe

Like tears, upon the skull of a widow’s groom,

My memories cling to me. Through that begotten

Veil which obstructs our truths, and womb

Of ever-present denial, my forgotten

Thoughts and loves, riches and victories,

And eroding failures live on. They change

Me, form me, and they call out to me: Free

Us, you bastard! But I do not respond, for age

Only strengthens the veil, and fear is made

Stronger yet. As I nevertheless resign

Myself to a memory of shadow, a light braves

All which I once knew. Ironic, some would find,

For as music falls upon my skull, I remember what he said,

But singers sing of northern lights, and summer nights, instead.

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