The poet died under a blanket of words, pen in mouth, breathing his last few lines into the sea-ink.
He rolled up the sharp years, holding them to his soul, loved + tended the bitter flowers bursting through the cracks in his childhood, blossoming them into love-roses and the torn petals of Carnations, the only flower whose
scent he knew.
"How do you do this?" he asked himself.
"How or why?" echoed the questioner.
"So that something good is left, because you only see light in the dark, to give silence
a voice, to dilute the emptiness between us."
"To free my soul and know love, to sing while terrified and to praise the warm hands of the sun; to turn anger into love, that is all."