by Mathew Richard Carter
Recently, I read a poem
about you and wondered why
I am just now finding out
that you had died, it was eerie
to read about you in a past tense,
so I googled you to be certain and
still I was in shock.
I could only envisage
the harsh and tattered
hours you spent
on the fringe
of recollection,
as your future
summits rise
like the oceans–
ultimate
and true
with those stone-washed
denim eyes of the most
brilliant blue.
I wish
to have known you, to sit
and to speak of times when
life was worth living,
we could lay on rooftops, naked,
and feel the breeze propel the space
between us, we’d watch the air sift out
our smokedust to the Gods of Tomorrow
and everything else beyond
our human comprehension.
And though I am saddened in this hour,
there is slightness of comfort
knowing your voice and your
spirit are now harmonious
and free, even louder
yet inside these poems
I keep reading.
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