December Nineteenth

Cold December
sunset standing before an old friend waiting…
Wondering what distant past gave me-
A speck of memory
a spark of hope,
strings in vein-
all ended in the wasteland of cadavers.
And so, I played.
His pale soul cried.
Numberless sorrow spoke his voice.
Those whisper meant something,
Yes, it does mean something.
All he left was a guitar with a dark post, untamed, mysterious.
The night he left,
Icast everything
With tears of notes,
every December nineteenth.