FINGERTIPS

Mere fingertips
Upon the edge of time
That judged a man
But not his rhyme
Strings on bows
To arrowhead
Searched his cupboards
As he lay dead.

Built a fire
In the hearth
Of a cold metal grate
At days start
While on a wooden bed
Comfort free
Lost to Heaven
Finally free.

Genius lay
In mortal flesh
Bone and sinew
Now at rest
Eyes that stared
To ceiling stained
A garret coffin
Words now framed.