A man
Leaves a voice
On brume
That is of paper
To a solitary
Event or thing
He points
As a despondent relic
That must be remembered
Faintly
His hand
The veins asunder
The terror of leaving beauty
Lost in the madness
That collects
Arrant forgetfulness
A man lifts his voice
Clashing with the impossible
His thoughts already of cinder
Mist and silence
A poem remains
Obscurely reposing in the cupped
Hands of the transitory
One of many inanities of inspiration
At moments gaining strength
But ultimately to rest alongside the expended
There with the elapsing sum of experience
Beyond Language 
nice. you play well with words…with i knew the language well enough to enjoy the others…
Beautiful poem– Espero que puedo leer mas y mas..xj
Beautiful Words….U have a good command of transforming emotions into words. n i like ur style of poems wid self-clicked pix. Kudos.