Blame
[Non-Fictional Preface: Fictional Old Folks Home/Apparition] "This is the story of two friends, both considered themselves start-up writers, whereas, one who was a bit more of an upstart, was merely known as, Robert Frost. Frost's friend, Edward Thomas was an indecisive fellow and unknowingly was an inner dark spot for him. Until that one day, they took the other road Edward wanted, and of course, Robert's piece was not Edward's choice, to say the least. Sometime after when Edward read Robert's piece, he joined the war and died two years later. 'Twas so unforgivable, his sister Jeanie/Florence knew of this and how her brother suffered so and much she tried to enlighten him until her very death. So nobody truly knows if Robert's s truly taking the blame was worth Edward's life for his--John's, lifetime. Hitherto my take on this ... poignant story," ... by the Poet.
The granules of misplaced salt waft at the mercy parting a cerulean ocean 'ere the receptive one buoyant compliment entertain breaths of air as selective fancy cascades yield upon the contours of his countenance.
A standpoint dropped off an equal claim of briny air an errancy fair befalls stupefied faraway perusal mystified acts by his reciprocating demeanor
preeminent femininity of old legal tender unladylike abandons the Boardwalk.
Some midday shade looms stealthily e'er nigh him so "Robbie," a voice beholds a loss who veers truly lost "It's me Robbie," "Jeanie?" "Oh, It's been ages!" "Oh my first name, never in a day, Robbie?" "Flo, is that you?" "I said that'll visit." "Anyway, Kennebec isn't too far."
"They said you proceeded a stroll, your daily pattern." "You be a bit more wary, Robbie, up in years now." "I reflected on how you've missed poor Edward." "Sad he died shortly after, he'd be proud." "Lately, the hospital's been worried."
"You've been roaming the corridors at twilight, Robbie." "They say your sense's been getting readily lost." "I was told you're searching for something ... or someone, and that you're disturbed, get uneasy, it's unlike you, Robbie!"
"What's the worry?" "I've not a single thought in me! Flo, I fear I've penned my life away, heaped in dustbins, I while of reality strewn apiece ... my life is scattered, but nay, begone ... ages past, filled and emptied, o'er and o'er.
My scribbled past, Flo, from dustbins hauled away, liquefying inks convergence insights on paper, scratches, scrawls, doodles, impetus ... alit, between the lines and the silence, finds me a blank space, I miss him, and I need so much to thank him, Flo."
"Robbie, he knows, Edward's stillness evolved your voice, Robbie. We were all very pleased to have heard it. I believe he was more so cheerful than any of us. Robbie, I'll take my leave of you." "Oh what manners, I've naught inquired of your sons." "Your dear nephews are quite, well, and needed worry about you."
"It is you, Flo?" "Now none of that ... (she kisses his cheek) ... I'll see you shortly ... Robert."
"Oh, we back to first names again?"
"You are the celebrity in the family, TaTa, Robert."
"Goodbye, Flo ..."
"Eh, what's he's on about?"
"I don't know, I wasn't paying attention!"
"He's talking to himself again, somebody named, Flo."
"Well, that would be proper, that's his sister."
"Maybe she came for a visit with him to say her name."
"Well that is a bit of magic, it is--during the Great Depression?--when she died."
"Oh, he was talking to himself?"
"Well, his lunch is all ready, I'll set it up and get it to him straightway."
"Here you go sir, this nicely made luncheon for you,"
"I need to thank Edward."
"His name's Ralph sir."
"Who?"
"The cook who made the lunch, his name's Ralph. An old-timer here and there's been no Edward, mayhaps he's on that road not taken, eh, the great
Mr. Robert Frost sir!"
Copyright ©
Hilo Poet
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