And now tell me, Terry, dearest friend of mine,
was the toil and endless scuffle with the world
really worth their weight in gold
and will our stars in Heaven ever shine?

Let your inner eye forth sail
over the troubled waters of the present
and reach the shores of yesterday
where the sycamore trees still sway
on the gentle waves of a wind warm and fresh;
dancing in the air, rustling and bathed
in the amber and brown shades that now
have paled.

Look there for the key to the music box.
You know, the one I gave you in the midst of Spring
on your 18th birthday when I took you aside
from the flourish, the noise and the bustling crowds
and you opened it, hands quavering in fear
and you smiled and you cried
and they were tears of joy
when you heard Chopin stamp
sincere songs from the soul.
I was there- my heart singing from within
in a falsetto voice so trembling and profound,
singing arias of a troubled fellowship.

We so oft prophesized that our Heaven
should last an eternity's time
but we never were good with the math,
the numbers and the sinusoide line
and infinity is seldom a tangible path.
I can't conceive what shadows came
to steal your smile that glum December day.
Perhaps it was the clouds that hung so thickly
on the gray, unyielding sky. Perhaps I sighed
too much or spoke too loud. Or perhaps
those sheets of paper and the quill
that you held with such devotion
perhaps they gained a firm lodging in your mind
and thus evicted, I became no more
than an dull old pain limping at your side.

You had your notes, your ink and words
that shot like geysers from your silky hands.
But is it me, or has the crescendo of the verse
slowed down, grade by grade, to fall short
of a dull and largely fruitless conversation
with some aching voices in the ether of your brain?
And is it me, or have we drowned the fast and bustling life
in a darkly pool of puffed up aspirations
blown over like the wind that no longer inspires
the amber and brown sycamore trees
to dance their Autumn choreographies.

It's been ten years since I saw you wave
your ragged hand, the face of stone,
the once amber locks- now an ashen shade.
For the last time I saw you wave
and igniting the engine
you sank in a faraway drunken haze.
Yes, Terry, dearest friend of mine,
we've aspired, we have climbed
the shaky towers of this odious life
but it seems to me
we don't tread the selfsame routes.
It seems to me
the words and verse that once so bloomed
(like the sycamore trees that flower in the Spring)
they have withered along with us
And their crescendo serenading melody
is tame and lost along with the golden key;
The key we've lost on the glum December day
when your ruddy cheeks grew cold and pale
and the ambitious shadows stole your smile away.

And now tell me, Terry, dearest friend of mine.
was the toil and scuffle really worth
the listless colors and the placid silence
And shall our stars in Heaven ever shine
the gold and amber shades, like they used to once?