When he was yet a child
he would tell these stories
that were off the page.
People would call them lies,
they would raise an eye.
His imagination was
something to behold,
as quick as the snap
of a whip, he'd conjure
up a tale,
nothing was off limits,
nothing too big a size.
He played with parables,
he relished surprise.
It was left to the imagination
to fill any holes,
to make light
any dark shadows.
Around the next corner
some new twist would appear.
If one was to lose track
and start to fall back,
with a wink and
a whisper he'd say
"Wish you were here".
Just the spokes on a wheel,
smoke rings in the wind,
life is passing by,
one moment you turn around
and it's your day to die.
Make your peace,
rest on your knees,
open the palms of
your hands
and let the metaphor
fly out the door,
your dove into the sky.