GONE

There was a narrow reason

to mourn

 

A cerebral molting spread over

partly

framed orderly opinions

 

He was a recluse of twisted

dreams

pure with talent

a personal connection

to the souls of

interest within his circle

 

He formed a texture of words

weaving clouds into

reality

 

Rain washed him, arms upstretched,

open mouth

he drank the sky

 

His theories brushed back doubt

the message between the lines

 

few gathered at the harvest of

his thoughts.

 

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