(For Philip Seymour Hoffman)
Scattered across a fevered plain;
Brick, mortar cast and lath, Map
the boundaries of one’s pain.
Some are traced, and some uncharted;
Boundary-less lies the abyss of
those broken hearted.
The child of God who takes
Its gifts given, and
Strews the stratosphere with
Twinkling, precious shards
Of Artists’ Heaven,
Knows not, perhaps the damage
To come,
When comet and its shimmery tail
get undone-
Particularly, not at Fate’s hands;
Rather– Crafted clumsily
by the selfish tools of
A most imperfect woman or man!
Now, I guess, it’s all right to
Adorn,
Our walls and village peaks
With Black veils and wreaths
that mourn, but oh why, why
Bemoan the loss of
What future joys might have been;
When all we see is rubble
Awash in muddy rain.
