With him I shared a book
And he warmly gave his to me.
Through the pages of each other’s books we peered
And learned and thought and lived.
The world became ours. And the hours were calm.

The man was sincere
For his music was pure and clear as glass.
He had a heart of gold
For he behaved as if I were delicately encased in it.
He was fearless
For never did he shelter his sweet song.

With pleasure we lived in each other’s books.
With deep simplicity we enjoyed the path.

Now I stand on that same course, which has just begun to turn.
I consider dancing longer, but the movement dulls.
And the road beneath feels inconsistent with my feet’s proclivity.
Here I am -standing,
Thinking,
Wondering,
Deciding to dance no further on the path he shared with me.

I impart his book to him
And my book is returned to me.
As I finger through familiar pages, I recognize alterations.
Once secluded pages are now highlighted in vivid yellow.
I discover things about my own book which had once been misplaced.

His music continues unshaken;
The exceptionally genuine melody carries on.
And as I back away ever gently
I hope his book, like mine, is better in some way
Because we had the chance to skim through it.

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there is always solitude
in the centre of the road
crossing over shades and
tones and
magnitudes of light

sometimes there is solitude
in the stream of thoughts
crossing over dreams and
age and
magnitudes of gloom

there is never solitude
on the ways i walk alone
crossing over fear and
loss and
magnitudes of hope

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