Dark as iron gall ink outside. I’m inside
listening to your Runaway Soul,
your
gypsy blood voice capturing lonely ride
down that restless ghost-beckoning road through
your window. I see her, you, me, deer taut
as pre-lightning on forest edge, flexed for
flight through ink black oak trees. A while back, caught
fleeing life by reality’s web, forced
to hover, reflect, admit I was lost,
I finally sensed honest agony,
pain of love escape, bleeding scars of long
futile journey, soul sad as lonesome plea
of Crouch’s fiddle. Grateful to return,
I stand, arms spread wide. The laughing stars burn.
Roger Armbrust
May 31, 2013
