Poetry · Writing

Rickman

The international bandit

thee headmaster

I tell them.

I tell them the story

is you

the story breathes you

and exhales icy winds

in a hot summer day. The first

steps were taken only

because you allowed it. The snake

everyone saw but not the thief we loved. I’ll tell

you the story. Feels the pages turn

like the wind blowing through your hair on a mare

through teeming meadows.

 

Now he rides on with a full book.

 

R.I.P

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