Finally, a poem that ISN'T about Charlie Chaplin or the "Fallacies" guy! I haven't been this pleased with something that I've written since "Hollywoodland", and I hope whoever reads this feels the same way!


In decades and years, he is sacred,

Consistently fantastic and frightening,

Incandescent, vivid, and gleaming

When snapshots and letters are fading.

.

His wisdom, his knowledge, his foresight

Force smiles when I'm tired of smiling,

Ignore space between moods and emotions,

Are impervious to miles and inches.

.

Woven between sinners and saviors,

He stays without wondering or wavering.

Unaffected by hours and minutes,

He smirks and he sighs and says nothing.

.

To ears that are used to rewriting,

Silence is curious and comforting,

As adjustments and hasty revisions

Come quickly in pounds and in ounces.

.

Among diligent dodgers and dancers,

He patiently sits and he anchors.

In love, in hate, in indifference,

He is unchanged.