A Night For White Satin Poem by John F. McCullagh

When days of future pass
and cannot come again-
Half a century seems a moment.
A loved musician meets his end.

The haunting notes you played on the flute;
those somber moody blues-
will echo through eternity
though you, yourself be through.

A treasured disk of Vinyl;
A loved, remembered song.
I played it first when just a teen
living in my parents' home.

A Sculptor's work melts in the rain
It's lines made indistinct
An author, once thought popular,
maysoon be out of ink.

A film made in the golden age
is faded acetate.
The beauty of white satin nights
I hope escapes their fate.