I read your poems again today Opened all of them in passing, once. Then cried inside, because I wasn’t sure Why I should cry real tears for you They were the preamble to your book, The voices I heard before I saw your face, The reality, the essence true Of the friendship that still binds me to you They were different from anything else That one like me could read of you For I felt as if I saw you new They weren’t words; they’re your soul, I felt The struggles of your spirit so sad They were all in the lines I read And now, when I think of your mirth I think again; why did I forget? Why did you laugh, and the next instant cry? Why were you so grim in one rhyme? And the next you were little more than a child? Why did you laugh, and the next instant cry? Did the poems lie, or was it you? Was the poet a demon, or were you? Is the one before me the hero, the idol,My friend, or is it just not you?