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Poem

Measure men not in meters,
Yet in volume of ventricle, you’ll find,
Compassion therein, one’s true capacity,
Of magnitude meaning, undefined,

How little broad shoulders do matter,
To bolster an orphan through rem,
Nor biceps do shelter maternal sadness,
As she leaves droplets under the stem,

It’s in the weight he holds onto a syllable,
For he knows the force which unfolds,
A gentle note, his frequent reprise, 
Amplifies resonance in young and old,

At length he smiles, beams of luminous youth,
To displace an aging darkness found in you,
Counts not the flames all ready blue, rather the
Lines of laughter, which alight your face in lieu,

Currency he finds a fictitious banquet,
Only for whom Dyne in dwindling power,
Sufficiency bestows the imperial value,
Only to whom embrace solely this hour,

Degrees of perception not bound by paper,
He sees no end, to his quest for knowledge,
As wisdom becomes his definitive asset,
Salmon so rare, caught far beyond college,

Like Pascal, men endure all bars atmospheric,
While so few bow only in gesture to humility,
Wounds fail to callous his resilient demeanor,
In respect to his embodiment of human fragility,

All stellar souls dwarf, as death begins its call,
While novas shine brighter, learnt in its latter’s fall,
So measure not, the meters of men,
But the loving moments, left behind them.

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