For Ray Bradbury


Your prehistoric typewriter fell quiet,

Dropped to repose with grinning fossil teeth

And etched itself into the stones of time.

Yours was the magic hand that made it roar

And rend the sable night with sounds of thunder,

Vibrant with the wonder of the words.

The words have ceased; the echoes never will.

Dream-wanderer among the icy stars,

You died as Venus transited the sun,

Much as you carved your own elliptic path

Across the pumpkin visage of the world,

A ghostly smile traced on eternity.

You've journeyed to October Country now,

Where whispering shadows gather you to rest.



--Donald R. Burleson

8 June 2012



Copyright (C) 2012 by Donald R. Burleson.

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