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 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.



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