WARHOL 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 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.

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s