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Dec 2017
he was all spirit,
filled the empty space in any room
(the wrinkled creases of any heart)
in which he resided--haunted;
like the subtle scent of frankincense--
permeating; a soft ethereal touch.

he was all silence,
never home to a raised voice or
exasperated shift of ligaments;
and yet with an effortless exhale,
in one fluent motion of air
he was able to catch your lungs.

he was all light,
lured your gaze with a gentle smile--
his warmth embracing you like arms
as subtle, yet irresistibly brilliant, as
a candle flame to a lonely midnight moth.

he was all soul,
without weight, but full of depth;
you could perceive him inwardly,
feel the years of lives lived
collected like treasures in his chest.

he was all there,
even when he no longer was.
Peripherally related to an older poem I wrote entitled, "portrait of a girl without organs."
Kris
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Kris
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