His thoughts smell like caffeine.
Defied the day/night drummer, he did.
Watched the world nearly die
     then awaken unaware.
Ready, though, for the autopsy,
searching for the COD
he read in the wrinkles
of street lamps and satellites,
"Death due to the search for life."

Instead he wrote, inadvertently,
the biography of the day,
playful and concise,
wise despite his best efforts.
I'll not write it all down here,
so as not to plagiarize.
Suffice it did no more that night
to keep the world from sleep.
Supine he waited, wished with
baited breath. Each fulcrum
of solar ascent went
slowly, wholly over his head.
Each night laid him down
something elaborately unseen.
Each of us heard his rhymes
                and in turn
         wrote him off.

Daylight simply hides the shadows -
passive state of things.
Life simply hides the death
which time inevitably brings.
Mourning dove finds company
and to the other sings.
I pick for you these roses,
but we're waiting for the rings.
                               - unsung