Ford

Once upon a time, a young, teenaged boy had a dream,

in it, a Black  Bird Thunder-ed on by, his it did seem.

Precognitive ?, one day, in middle age, it was true.

In a Black Bird, on the open road he would go – he knew.

 

Then one day, up and journeyed onward, a head he flew,

the road, before his wheel, lay ahead, ahead was his view.

Today, no wind in his long, graying hair, no sun on his head,

just the sounds of music – silent words on a page instead.

 

Now my Black Bird no longer flies, nor does she Thunders.

All that remains, that is left – a rear view mirror and wonders.

Oh !!!, the stories she could tell – of a life, a long time ago,

of beauty, of life, of experiences and all I came to know.

 

Knowledge of all, that will, one day, come to an end,

but until then, they will carry me through – be my friend,

a friend that accompanies those many empty hours,

brightens up those gray days before becoming bowers.

 

B. J. “A” 2

September 20th 2004