He sits there wrapped in darkness like it is a fine silken cloak A bright burning ember surrounded by the night. Devoured by it. It suits him though, it really does, the darkness that is He is definitely a poet at heart. But the more I look at him, the less I see him as a poet, a writer, paying homage to his muse, and the more he looks like a farmer. A man who puts his seed, his words into the ground, and that is all he reaps All that he has ever reaped, nothing but all this sorrow. written 6/4/98