I read your poems again today
Opened all of them in passing, once.
Then cried inside, because I wasn’t sure
Why I should cry real tears for you
They were the preamble to your book,
The voices I heard before I saw your face,
The reality, the essence true
Of the friendship that still binds me to you
They were different from anything else
That one like me could read of you
For I felt as if I saw you new
They weren’t words; they’re your soul, I felt
The struggles of your spirit so sad
They were all in the lines I read
And now, when I think of your mirth
I think again; why did I forget?
Why did you laugh, and the next instant cry?
Why were you so grim in one rhyme?
And the next you were little more than a child?
Why did you laugh, and the next instant cry?
Did the poems lie, or was it you?
Was the poet a demon, or were you?
Is the one before me the hero, the idol,My friend, or is it just not you?