Jason Xenopoulos

The Departed

I stand in the cavernous hall waiting to be born again
The trees tremble beneath each new whispered soliloquy
I hear my mother’s melody in the cacophony of the rain
as shadows of the departed seek to serenade me.

I wash myself in the baptism of Time’s great mire
I wield the knife carefully
Gravity and Relativity squat beside a dying log-fire
Dissecting the fleshy body of what was to become me.

The first time I heard her play,
a desperate attempt to prove she loved me,
I felt as though I was listening to my own DNA
strum a requiem on the corrugated-iron above me.

Her dead fingers drum like a skeleton’s bony hand
across the subcutaneous keys of my baby grand.

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