Listen careful to the evening blues,
the patterns of a wintry night,
cascades filtered upon neon lights,
the telling nature of whom we believe.
Tell me a story she said to me one night,
and then decades flew by,
stories no longer told,
only imagined by separate sails.
Oh, he might write about his own struggle
trying desperately to figure out why,
never having a lead,
a solution to what it is made him cry.
In the immediacy of a quiet evening,
he would feel only his own soul
in tears of a waning midnight sacrifice
his life would need to move forward.
He might then recall the sweetest smile,
not anyone whom anyone might imagine,
only the beauty of time,
his love for her in the mystique of nigh.
For it were that her elegance, a silent wonder
would be his spell he would choose a wander
© Scott F Savage 2020