Sing to me, O Muse, of a complicated man,
this life self-forged through tragic fire,
crafted from scraps of tin and gold,
hammered thin by doom and choice,
quenched to brittleness in acid waters.
Show me how, through the veil of years,
these smoldering bones did carry
the multitude of atoms that both
sparkled and hissed, caressed and raged,
in that single, fractious, chimeric whole.
Write down for me the lines whereby
this fatal journey can be fathomed,
such modes contained and fit to reason
as stern-faced lesson or warning dire and not
chaotic spasms of an indifferent fate.
None of us, not one, are made of stuff so pure
that faults, once sought, remain unfound within our selves,
but if this one soul’s full account of light
can be so nearly blasted through then how did I,
who lived so near and for so long, escape untouched?
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 
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