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 up-stretched
open mouth
he drank the sky
his theories brushed back doubt
the message between the lines
many gathered at the harvest of
his thoughts.
Roger Singer 