To

You, Poet
Who
Once broke bonds of reality
to briefly touch perfection with the tip of a finger
and experience that so crudely confined to fiction
Discovered a quietly awaiting moated glade, its path unfrequented
its name corrupted by long amnesia and collective deception
and left behind no footsteps to follow
From there, spoke to me in your verse, of color beyond perception
in a secret language more valuable than comprehension
planted in an inconceivable dimension
beyond the best reach of my mine

For an instant I was in love
or saw what love could be
And with every word the wind swept away
I hoped to someday love like you.