On a cold December evening, in nineteen eighty-four,
Sixteen-year-old John Boulware stepped outside his door.
His friends pulled up in a Jeep, their spirits running high,
Rain fell from the heavens, clouds covered the sky.
They laughed and they sang as the wipers kept time,
Headed for a concert — Prince, in his prime.
Their hometown hero, from Minneapolis fame,
Was lighting the stage, the crowd wild with his name.
The roads were slick, the night was grim,
But nothing could dampen the joy within him.
He turned to the back seat, with laughter and cheer,
Excited for music, adventure so near.
But then came a screech — a twisting sound,
Headlights flashed and the world spun ‘round.
A tree rushed forward — no time to react,
John screamed aloud as the windshield cracked.
Then silence fell, and darkness grew,
The storm kept pouring — the world askew.
Moments later, from the city’s line,
Came Officer Coyle and his partner in time.
Rain hit their coats as they neared the scene,
The road was glistening, slick, and mean.
Three teens stood trembling beside the wreck,
Cuts on their faces, fear on their necks.
The driver cried, “It’s my fault, I swear,
We lost control — John’s still in there!”
Coyle rushed forth, with a heart that sank,
Peering inside through glass that clanked.
There sat young John, slumped and still,
His dreams cut short by fate’s cruel will.
Coyle whispered softly, “Is he okay?”
His partner sighed, “No… he’s gone away.”
The friends broke down, their sobs took flight,
As sirens wailed through the rainy night.
An ambulance came, their pain to tend,
But John’s own journey had reached its end.
Later that week, as Coyle reviewed,
The crash site photos, cold and crude,
He froze mid-breath — his pulse went tight,
For one strange image caught his sight.
Above the Jeep’s door, a shimmered gleam,
Not just a glare, not a trick or dream —
But the outline clear, through the film’s pale trace,
Looked eerily like young John’s face.
Eyes in anguish, mouth in cry,
Captured mid-moment — frozen goodbye.
As if his soul, in a fleeting streak,
Had left the earth mid-photo’s click.
The picture spread from state to state,
A haunting glimpse of a mortal fate.
Was it just lightning, a trick of light?
Or John’s last moment caught in flight?
Now decades have passed, yet people still stare,
At that eerie glow in the cold night air.
Some say it’s proof, others just sigh,
But maybe — just maybe — souls never die.
And somewhere beyond that December rain,
John hums to a melody — free of pain.
For though the car met a tragic end,
His spirit lived on… through the camera’s lens.