He tried to paint  the world with words
coated hue-
misery,  sweet and bitter.
Novels of leaves  tumbling from
old oaks and Christmas trees.
Canvas of dead songs written of poets from
East to West bays

His hands were wrapped with metaphors
of sun and moon
I could no longer see the lingering
truth behind all the ironies

When can I sit his side without being told naive
To love without building an old story
His world, his eyes, his words
how do you bond such gold?