My friend, your words are still calling cards
You still repeat the themes you should not know,
should not have heard, reverberating your view
had you been invited to the conversation

So many years since their staccato, strange momentum
was the order of the day, yet like leaves of autumn you
still fall every year, like clockwork, reminding of the loss
in a blaze of pointless, beautiful but all too brief colour;
full circle the seasons and sensations come and go

My friend who was never a friend, nor love, nor enemy true;
the ghost that walks through electricity and need to me; you yet return
as a postcard withered by time, finally reaching its destination after
years of mis-direction; so fitting for you, the master
of diversion and the king of the unreal

My friend your face has aged and your voice is the fall
of winter; anger and madness still glint in your reptile eyes,
searching for something you can never see
And you will never see me again, not if I see you first, but I will
still notice, if nothing else, how you continue to converse
across the bounds of normal conversation, no matter how pointless
this may be; not now to my heart, which is closed, but yet to that
part of my mind that can, even now, remain amused

(c) Helen Valentina 2013, All Rights Reserved