For W.S.

Standing on a bridge in Venice,
I was overcome with a sense of loneliness
And the belief that, without someone to share it with,
Beauty is meaningless torture.

Now, as I read the words on these pages,
Crafted by a mind so gifted, yet so alone,
I am reminded of this sensation.
Your life a solitary walk among
Falling leaves
And choirs of Seraphim;
An appreciation of mere air
Capable of making my heart stop.

It occurs to me that beauty often exists in solitude;
That it is, in fact, born from it.
But without the reader
To drop tears of shared wonder and appreciation on these pages,
That beauty still means nothing.
It would merely survive in a vacuum of nothingness
As if it never existed at all.

So I remain alone
On that bridge,
My chest bursting with awe and wonder,
Confined in utter impotence.