Jeremiah B

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,

on this page.

                                                                                          

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