Old friend, I read your biography
Your words were succinct and real
And your inked imagery played well
Like daring dew on leaves’ end.
You talked about anxious ageing
Losing your hold on your youth
Parting too quickly and drying daily
As if there were no more life to use.
You described your betrayed bones
How they sullenly screech and fold
The way they bend without a bell
And how they many times you fell.
Your words painted your unhappiness
Careful to not be careless and faithless
For the end of the early mornings
Was only a meagre mansion in the evenings.
In your last lines you drew a circle
Though to me it was a circular cycle
Showing how you lived your little life
So breathtakingly in harmony with time.