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