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.
Roger Singer 