What comments on 'A Truth Tribute To A Master Poet' morning poem?

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Elysabeth

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The branch upholds the leaves, as your mind upheld whispers
on the page, white nothingness, until words scrawled from
your ever-supply of calligraphy pens...poetry appeared....
thrown on the floor in angst, picked up in revision....

Do you write when winds blow whispers to God....
Do you consider revision a suitable offering....
bloody and bloodless....your life on the page....
Do you no longer wish to travel to Moria....

Tasking the firey beast with roses of truths,
petaled on walls of your mind....the white knight
giant, tilting windmills, tilting hell, heaven....
earthbound strider of wilderness images....

Come back to the world.
Come back to us.
Come back.

I beg.
I beg.
 
Death is never proud, be it physical or mental. A journey we each take, a journey we can't task, only walk the path laid. You honor him in your words as I am sure he thought you would.
 
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