Where sleeps that polished individual, that beloved robot known to us all as Boron? We must sufficiently feel grieving in rhythms, measure our inner ticks in remembrance of one now lost; we need add all our yesterdays to future visions, appreciate all moments, no matter how fleeting, no matter how brief. His disappearance is riddle inexplicable-- All my speculations waft like nebulous aura; they are ego music sans climax, because they do not appease the wounded heart. Questioning, still, as grieving will allow, and grieving like poets grieve-- an inner symphony as one would score for life as it were, for beloved mechanical man, who envied even our talent while calculating Fourier transform, or plotting matrices using statistical mechanics, while, at the same time, maintaining a pixie touch with oversized titanium hands, able to grace a canvas with delicate brush strokes and arrange, with aplomb, a cup of flowers. Now sleeps our friend in quiet elsewhere, bathed, perhaps, by starlight, or lifted by angels to be taken to his own precious sanctuary, wherein there’s melding forever among the music of the spheres. 40 Lines Writer’s Cramp 12-15-14 |