As I sit here, making music, in the night
He plays a fiddle, made from thine bones
While my guitar strums, though not alone
A ghostly vision, stands near and plays
The fountain bubbles in mysterious ways
I feel the fire and flora, as they swoon
I can’t help notice, what of this moon?
Does it bring to me, a glimpse, too far?
Or a warning, played, through my guitar
So many men, this way have passed
I dare wonder now, am I the last?
©2019 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
Photo via Pixabay CC0