Fictional narrative poems are strange to write..
We were the ones who’d never quit, they said
When we were young, we spied
When you were gone, I cried
When I was lost, you pried
I pried the worries of that bowed head.
We knew more than we should have, they said
We spied on them, the old
We pried, until they told
We cried to see it all unfold
It unfolded, the troubles of that bowed head.
We got more than we could handle, they said
The old smiled wearily
They told their stories clearly
“Unfold that paper, deary.”
Deary, she called me and bowed her head.
We couldn’t do it, move on, they said
Wearily we walked on
Clearly you were gone
Deary, me, a lonely song
A song, she sang no more, that bowed head.
We quit, it was a shock, they said
On my way, with weights to bear
Gone, troubled soul, don’t despair
A song in the night will get you there
Get you there, she was there, that bowed head.
Copyright © 2013 by My Red Leather Notebook