There was a narrow reason

to mourn


A cerebral molting spread over


framed orderly opinions


He was a recluse of twisted


pure with talent

a personal connection

to the souls of

interest within his circle


He formed a texture of words

weaving clouds into



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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