A Pack of Black Dogs

A slow slide into melancholy boy-child.
Brings a minor key close to a brief blue-note life.
Via diminuendo, decrescendo,
Largo, lento, grave
Till snuffed out in a sudden cesura.

May all the malevolent curses since the beginning of the world, to this hour, light upon this Pack of black dogs. These dementors, these reivers of youth, polluters of truth.
They silence the muses: they play – but who loses?
They robbed him of talent, of art and of name.
They took away reasons for living, and fame.
And after they’d taken all he had left – they made off at night with his life itself.

All but the love of others.
To be remembered for a while is all we can hope for.
As they watch, from an emptying platform, the trains click away to Scotland
They’ll all know you were here now you are gone.

There is no coda.

Stephen Potts