He bade Farewell to cruelty and pain
to war and lust and superpatriotism..
Experienced love as seed was planted..
the seed germinated and bloomed in
the happiness of his writing Spring..
Writing was his real home and there
each tragedy made his story whole..
Becoming the story he was a stream:
as writing paused he saw future bends
bends which shaped his happiness now..
In imagination his vision was clear
his perceptions were cleansed..
Tragedy lived as a virus lives
as appendage of a writing life-force..
Then when his writing light dimmed
the appendage gained strength
he sought for an end passing through
those forty-seven possibility doors..
Many doors marked a Moment
a vision of a Spring morning jolted
by electric remembering of death..
Finally his Farewell to simply walk
Walk away in the rain...