Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Madness,

a beacon, subsumed.

masters the brume,

a songbird, ensnared,

plies forth its melody,

no less than you or I atop

the rooftop garden at the corner

of Stanyon and Hayes

stain-glass, a sacrament,

reflects to us what others

already believe to be,

your legacy, etched indelibly

upon my prison wall, even now,

brings me peace,

you, faceless one

who came before us,

white-washed,

plumbing the depths of grief,

paved our way