He was never a part of this world,
not really, but rather like an extraterrestrial
from another dimension

A silent observer
with a pen between his fingers, watching
and making notes of untied shoelaces

He used to write rhymes about
the wonders of life, isolated in his bohemian
house and a tiny window his only reminder
of the existing reality

He was never a part of this world,
not really, but the odd bird chose to come out
of that door, eventually