I cry
A death perhaps succumbs to joy
but never has it been
without teaming
unlight stolen from here,
a now unto
what seems so distant -- near
a heart whose beat
challenges
rythm
of a broken excerpt
worded justly to bring the unwelcome.
He walks there, seen not heard nor known
of course
what care gave him
he took in soothe, seething
in some semblance of arrogant smirkings.
I cry for a loss untinteded
there:
a construct of balance
between the here
[and now]
and what was back then: veiled untruth.
I walk a line he won't touch. I spoke... write.
When deafening drums kill his doldrum -- love.
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