He had the paper,
pressed, preserved; reserved
to read when the pain was less
palpable, and he’d be able to grieve.
He couldn’t believe that twenty years
stood between this heinous act, a fact
he had struggled with greatly. But,
lately he felt closure. He was sure
that John was near, it was clear that
in the music and moments of release,
his elusive peace was just a piece of the puzzle.
His New York was empty without his big spirit,
the heart of this metropolis beat
in the stately brownstone Dakota.
Back to bring song back to the maniacal
masses. A cold December to remember,
Central Park aglow, and the World Trade Center
continued to tower tall twenty years since his fall.
They’ve killed John, and life went on.
He had the paper, pressed, preserved;
reserved to read when the pain was less
palpable. Maybe tomorrow!
