I sift through his Taoist rants
searching the brilliance and madness
for something to make sense; to inspire.
And he does not insult me
with the dust of dead men
though dust is what remains.
Ash falls through my fingers,
as promised, plenty of his own decay,
pure and uncontaminated,
his spirit whispering remembrance;
his legacy blowing in the wind
captured in my heart and lungs.
*Loss contest November 3rd, 2012