We were like Panza and Quixote, chasing dragons in a land of myth and make-belief The moon held your father in your eyes as your grandmother rose with the sun
Never gone, no not really ever gone… so was the pandemics lament.
In the story, I chose the inner light as I bow before inlet eyes
I was always a far eastern man at the razor’s edge, like Somerset in Paris
This enlightened rogue has not subsided but all things must pass or do they
I still sense the same ten thousand things crying out for understanding.
So remember me at Barataria by the myriad names given call to you
My true love waits for me at Barataria on the bay or by the sound
Waiting for me to find out what it means to miss, to want, to love all in the leaving.
And my leaving precludes any waiting I may possess in my wanting.
© j c