I repeat his name until there is a proper place.
I place him neatly and linger just for a moment before I place the next one where he belongs.

An old man whose lungs have felt the smugness of many cigarettes
Looked at me and said, "If you are a poet write a poem about nothing". I took out a piece of paper and handed it to him.

You fenced off your eyes
with a charcoal black,
then stranded in snow
and an endless depression,
you painted your death-mask
in venetian ceruse,
hoping that it would be enough
to appease your critics;
to keep away from the sun,
to slip through the seams of time,
and to a place where
the evenings do not seem so long.

You gave your sanity
to a useless drug
and kept your identity
to the picture
within his wallet.
I hope you know your bravery is noticed.
I hope that for once
you can find peace
amongst this constant state of war.

I am a fugitive.
my thoughts are my crimes.
Silence is my punishment.