After They Cry

I dream’t, for I would, the picture

Of love transcending worldly chains.

I touched my butterfly stomach

And counted the treasure love gains.

Magician, wizard, or prophet,

Or just a gifted musical man,

The artist forever known as himself

Transcended any image or plans.

The best I can offer is tribute,

A juvenile jumble of letters,

I don’t presume to be worthy

Of the music and tales of my betters.

So here we are, the remains

Of wreckage in the world left behind.

At least he still comforts our pains,

Music, medicine born of his mind.

What is to be said? I was born. I will die. I look white, my wife is black. My great grandfather was Filipino. I do neuroscience research. My name is Bryan J. Maloney.

Share...Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on TumblrPin on PinterestShare on LinkedInShare on Google+

Written by:

Published on: April 19, 2017

Filed Under: Articles, Essays & Poems, Poetry

Views: 263

Tags:

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *