I once heard a man die,
Not with the raging fits and screams accompanying exorcism.
As we are wont to believe and expect.
But with a silent sigh forcing his spirit into oblivion.
Twice I watched her birth life.
Dissimilar worlds of similitude.
Like to escape the dark pool within, one with screams and raging fits burst forth.
The other, a semblance of opposite; with a silent sigh and blind eyes came forth.
That third day, from a hole carved in the crust,
He woke to life.
Typified by the absence of flying flags and bawling trumpets akin to His Victory,
Ethereal and pure, He rose to heavens beyond.
On four lines, his mind bled.
Poetry the dagger that sits in the open wound of his thoughts,
Four pictures he painted,
On the crumpled canvas of fleeting inspiration.