His philosophical arguments
no longer allow me any new hypotheses
he is fixed, in a pastiche of memories, and
returning images, sparked randomly
from the flint walls that surround.
A little more understanding, possibly;
though now I am the age he was,
the Elder he will always be.
His first passing was sad but accepted
His final passing, through me,
now looms, and will largely go unnoticed;
a world extinguished, by
the death of a memory.
Neither monument, nor tombstone, nor plaque
can contain his spirit, and
just a few blackened words,
— Hiroshima moment of passing —
are left behind, as a burnt after-image.
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