Apollo once plucked at his veins;
echoed through all of his lines.
The umber of the sun refracted tenfold within his retinas;
syphoned outward back towards the sky.
Like the finest of rain could do no harm,
the loudest of flames would never scar.
A modern day hallelujah laced his breath.
A map of europe etched across his spine,
whispered ideas of where to wake tomorrow.
Like the sharpest of sunsets would sing
to respect the tones in his serenade.
Mountain ranges sit beneath his eyes;
canyons to carry the currents of smiles.
The simiri of a laugh. The glow of a story.
Adonis had once charmed his blood, his spirit.
Like he would succumb to no greater pleasures
than those found in nothing.
Like every breath, every sigh,
were crafted to perfectly align with his own time.
And when he rests,
angels sleep between his lips,
honey drips into his kiss,
and there is no place more divine to lie
than parcelled between his limbs.
The famous lovers of dante’s creation wistfully await his arrival,
a celebration unrivaled for a celebrity such as he.
And though he will be missed,
there are much grander places for him to exist.
You allow yourself to become pensive in his absence;
Nothing could triumph the peace he brings in pure blank forms.