He follows me on windy days,

and again on dark nights,

when the saddest music plays.

Who am I to pretend he was not alone?

Not fighting some invisible war?

Hurting and nursing wounds that cut him to the bone?

Who was he to.pretend that he had the strength tomcontinue?

To pretend to go on and on…..

Living as if the power was out and there was no sound at his hellish venue.

He comes to me in morning rain whose drops collect on my face like tears.

(never washed away)

Still collected after all these years.

I wish I could go to him.

Maybe in dreams or in some spiritual way, fit and trim. 

Maybe on some celestial plain or an astronomical place.

Standing in eternity to see his smiling face,

Or,

Maybe in some heavenly realm with eternity in front of us and God at the helm. 

Bathed in memories and light,

no more worries about putting up the good fight.

Newly restored, slate wiped clean,

a new horizon,

a gently painted scene.

He comes to me in dimly lit rooms,

telling stories whose lyrics and music elicit strong memories,

now we are both alive, no more mental tombs.

He comes to me in memory,

of times now  long gone such as summer nights and winter days,

at these times he is standing right next to me. 

He.comes to me at height and tail end of storms, in clouds and flashes of lightning,

in between drops of rain collecting on the window,

turning to.tiny prisms that distort and replay the day while the past is fleeing and the present is ever tightening.

He comes to me in all moods, morning, day and night.

He speaks of things he has learned and offers his advice,

he is now well read, well travled, recreated,

with remade insight. 
T.S. Deary 

10/1/19 – 10/7/19