a week has passed, and perfection closed -
who has seen the crazy life inside?
The Man recants, his life deformed, perhaps,
should shelter become intensified
and an easier existence found for tortured Art.
When War came, and open flowed expense,
can curling pleasure hurt the Earth
now that pain is documented?
In Heart's true strength the burden passed
into quiet ceasing moments; years;
fragrant pastures blaze in golden light.
She is softness, your Renaissance, old man;
ninety famous stretches, fulsome workaholic -
pretty Jacqueline, clothed at last; your love.
With a tattered notebook held to his chest
And a broken pen between his fingers,
Staring out at the world
With a soul far too sad to be alive.
I stood beside him and tried to read the words
Written in silent sentences upon the paper;
He looked at me and said
I wouldn't like them;
They were bluer than the oceans
That ran through my eyes.
I took the notebook from his hand
And he didn't stop me;
No, instead he looked upon me
Like some sort of angel fell from grace,
Curling in on himself like old paper.
I read the words he'd written in the night
And heard the songs he'd sung on his own
Because no one would sing for him,
And I understood the way
He saw the world in hues of blue.
He and I sat down on a bench
Lining walls framed by old memories,
And in the back of the notebook
That was his home, I wrote
A sad poem like the sad poems
That ran through his veins.