a poem by jimmy riddle...about simon

He stood pained at the window.
It was square and white.
A little box containing all the world
An eye peering out to the hinge of the sea
Blue and gold kissed on the horizon
His absent eyes flickered for a moment but died
The colours called to him but he could not leave
He was patient in his discontentment
Unthreatened in that sterile room

He slept through the undarkened hours
Wrapped in the shimmering heat of late July
Sweat wept from his stony skin
Dripping from his fluted brow
Like the sacred tears of a little God
He lay there; soundless
Like a sleeping child;
A trembling giant; afraid of the world.

Belligerent spirits consumed his placidity
As ferociously as he consumed them.
And silver tears like dewy pearls broke from his eyes
As he woke to the sound of seagulls crying outside
He wept wordlessly and without comprehension
That there could be pain so exquisite
It is unbearable to even the artist's scope of feeling.
That a heart could be so mutilated,
Yet we are reborn everyday and the body lives on
Still there is pulchritude; in being so broken
And whole at the same time.