hammered on a blank paper anvil,
he bent those impossible links to a chain…
wrought from the fires of his heart,
were letters ode to glory, and to pain…
held tight like the slipping sands,
in the strong shell of a sixty minute glass…
he captured life in black and white,
in words that would neither fade, nor pass…
he believed not in himself as one,
but just another medium for the passing by…
for what his worth did mean now,
would only be about what he left behind…
when crooked questions posed,
his answers were always straight in line…
that the ones who needed to know,
would find it all in the passage of time…
and here his words, i now quote,
from a letter that he had long ago wrote…
"to the wordsmith is this ode,
for these words, are not mine,
but his, that i have quote."
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