A Poem by Edward Boss

I wrote this in 1997, after a lover died of AIDS-related causes at 29 years old. His life was sex, meth and partying. I foolishly followed him. Below is only the last page of the complete poem, which is much longer.

On gossamer wings in the trickery of altered sight,
we once again paid the heavy price for leaving what was right.

Damn the endless night,
for in it you screamed out, but I only heard you laugh.
All things weren't right.
The sky and air smelled of rain and flashed of blue lights.
Nothing seemed very quiet
in our twisted imaginations blight.

Come back my fair-haired brother before the sun of morning
scorches your fragile wings
and you fall before your work is done.
The silver box you clutched so tight
in your twilight scorn was only empty,
and not of this world or mine,
no trace of the crimes evil dust within
that could sing us a warning
as it flowed into the torn fabric of our mind.

Then again at dawn weary
from empty mornings, and meaningless days
that stand tall as bars of iron,
thick stone walls,
rusting as those tears once wept
follow their cracks and seams
to distant streams and creeks.

We are surely not alone
once we have surrendered to the unknown
where sweet bird of youth once soared,
but her crystal wings forced her down to
shatter on distant marble halls,
and the precious things that mattered are
no more there to recall.

Go now spirit empty,
we've rode the storm alone.
Your voice no longer echoes
in the cosmic wind to me
my dear forgotten friend, you're only looking
for your way back home.