Not the Man I Was and Yet

Craig Allen Heath
Jul 30, 2017 · 2 min read
CC0 Public Domain — Source

A poet wrote of the Summer of Love,
how it was and is no more,
save for the echoes that still vibrate
in aging bone and muscle.
To read every line was to hear a sigh,
the exhale of longing and resignation,
foreshadowing that sigh in his future,
and mine,
when our last breath will mingle with the clouds
that have circled the world from that day to this.

Those who study the real world,
as he and I study hopes and dreams and their dark sisters,
tell us the bodies we hold so dear are not solid.
The bones and sinews that walk and talk,
that carry us from here to there,
are more like a mountain stream;
unchanging to the eye, as the water flows through,
never stopping, ever new and fresh.
In time, it is said, the cells that form our flesh
trade places, like racers in a relay,
one out, one in,
until, every decade or so, we are renewed.
If true, I have been two boys
and four men, so far.

So, where in me are those two boys,
who remember those promises made in passion
that could never, ever be kept?
Which cell remained to remind me
of those dreams I breathed,
when just breathing bestowed bliss?
I am not the man I was, and yet
the boy I am still dances to that
music in the streets at night.
He still believes, against all sight and experience,
that Love conquers all.
He will still be singing of the gentle people
with flowers in their hair,
when that final sigh escapes his lips
as he reaches the coda, the melody stopped short,
before he can croon the second chorus.


With thanks to Mike Essig for the inspiration, and apologies for the blatant theft.

Other Voices

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Craig Allen Heath

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“Heaven is a library of every book ever written, eternity to sit and read, and a bottomless cup of the best coffee.”

Other Voices

A sanctuary for orphaned poems and prose.

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