Left to me, your worst historian,
to pick up, in a daze, some depth of diction
I never found while you had lived
and I can only now pretend that words are capsules
of sanguinity, that they’ll unmask the symbologies
of sound that bore your binaries to their realms
like sacred dreams of Hypnos.
Regret’s a simple word.
I always thought of "A Separate Peace", and in those scenes
you were this Mozart in the rough, a perfect chord, one
which I would meekly channel through cracks of light
shown through the fist of my own interference,
Why this wisdom, now?
The cosmic clown who wrote this song
does not annotate our endings with an epilogue.
I do not see the irony in celebrating
your new found space.
There is no iconicity,
no special shape
that serves the world
as you did serve,
to bend and writhe the streets
into a wellspring, a circuitry of light
to lead your vibe into my home,
your tribe of thoughts into my self.
You know, these roads are still around; we walk back through them now
to find what hinders your design, what keeps you from our dumbest senses.
And as I said, I am altered, for one day less than forever,
I am a new found instrument,
encoded with your time
your part in atoms
I still use.
I will admit, I didn't know
every place survives your travels
and still does carry your quickest grin.
I hadn't realized that you still reach
into the sun for shadows,
and we’re all cast from a bulb
we cannot squint away,
that we have gathered in this
pool of bright
because we still
can hear you
but I believe it all,