May the days of our writing lives be a true elocution of the mind artistic
while our insular and and sometimes unfurnished creations in time become wedded to discoveries cosmopolitan
concluded only to some degree by our passing
as our lifework remains to be further milled
and appreciated in smartypants cafes, sawdust-on-the-floor dives, illuminated by flashlight under a myriad of covers and in the minds of solace seekers
having stepped gently or tread heavy as truth requires
weeks, months, years, decades defined by syllable and metaphor but mostly naked words.