One day the poet will die and the flowers
on his grave wilt, unremembered.
The bearer of human longing will falter
under that weight and fall or wander
one night, and reappear after dead years,
a pale image home from the war. Some days
I too would lie down after long walks
and stare at the clouds or the cracks
on the wall, beaten. I have felt stone-hard,
and nothing; but love mostly, and longing.
One day the poet will die long suffering
the blows and the cracks from inferiors;
disrespect, ironic stares, and mock
wonderment. I will live on I suppose
vicariously, grieve; wander narrow
streets at night, fall into reverie
swayed by distant music on the breeze.
Intermittently, my thoughts are with you,
and at each stride I envision what to do;
and with my feet beat time as I would you.
14 October 2015