Crinkled, crusted and tanned,
years have eroded over his parchment
leaving layers of regret.
His last words were barely legible;
scribbled painfully in penumbra blue,
expressing the ephemeral pleasures
he once embraced.
The quintessence of life,
his past was a Renaissance
craving creativity to survive.
His poetry played rhapsodies
and seduced nymphs to dance to his passions.
Immersed in words which can only whisper,
I feel his ethereal presence like a soft hush.
Ruminating beyond any imaginable realm,
I humbly yet desperately struggle
to comprehend the suicide of a tormented poet,
while still enraptured with the gifts he left behind.
Faded ink slowly evaporates out of a life
which became a paradox of words between the wrinkles….