melissaahowells
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dancing, a homeless Shaman man in a sparkling pink cap. cocks his head sideways, looks up into me. I can see his heart in his eyes as he stares up into the night. he sings familiar notes, his voice pained, plaintiff with the music: "This is the end, beautiful friend, this is the end..." ** rain pours like its poured all day. its just a taste of the monsoon season to come. and the days of grey are stacking up into the future. "west coast weather is lonely," he says. from the black pitcher of the sky a rare peal of thunder sounds. "pardon me, ma'am" he says, "but music is all there is that soothes my soul." and he picks up the old refrain again... "this is the end, my only friend, the end..." ** smiling, I say, "ma'am is what they call my Mother, sir" " I know," he replies...."but don't we all get older in the end?" and picks up the verse again. he's out in the street light now, face bruised, a fresh gash across his nose. "I'm just waiting for the taxi to the next world, the next life..." he grins. smiles so wide I feel I can peer down into his throat to see the cancer growing throughout his body. a shudder and I feel the cold night air going through mine. "no need to call the po-po, ma'am...I'll be gone soon or soon enough..." and then he disappears into a glowing patch of fog, the Doors Of Perception blinking closed. Copyright September 30,2013 with the initial writing begun sometime in September 2007. All Rights Reserved by This Author Melissa A Howells Meloo from her Tilt-a-World **--Music from The Doors, " The End" based on my experiences in Portland Oregon Vote for this poem |
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