I Cried For John Keats And My Love

Sometimes the long way round,
By way of searching a new address,
As you wander the wrong back road,
You find something interesting,
Something you wouldn’t have known was there,
If you weren’t searching for something else.

Sometimes, we see or read something
That just breaks our heart,
Or takes our breath away, or both,
And nothing but tears can slacken the emotion.

John Keats, the poet, dead at 25 of tuberculosis;
Most famous for “Ode To A Nightingale”.
The bio is lengthy for a career so short;
As his body of work was immense.

His friend became his caregiver in his last months,
As the disease consumed him;
And in the last stages,
We sometimes don’t know if we are alive or gone;
The misery is so deep; life so forlorn;
And dreamy silence is so appealing.

As his friend recalls,
And as I remember a few mornings with my Sweet Deb:

They will cry upon waking to find themselves still alive.

Can anything be more dreadful?

It is for these souls we wish the blessing
That comes with the end of their days on this earthly plane.
It is for their sakes we welcome end of suffering.


by Bill Galvin

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