His spirit was transparent.
His spirit was dark.
Camouflaged in dim lights,
muffled by screams louder than his own,
his spirit was stark.
It was his spirit that had convinced him,
that he could jump off great heights.
That he would land on his feet, and he had.
I wish coincidence wasn’t his ally so;
I wish he had fallen down, broken a bone,
and some more.
An artist like no other, he would sing for her;
an artist to no one but her, he could read her.
His spirit condemned, she once hid from him.
And I blame her still, for then
his spirit compelled him to hide from me.
His screams silent today, his songs an echo.
A forgotten memory, but are you really?
For ‘read more books’ weren’t
words by anyone famous.
Know that a decade later, I live by them;
they were words by my alcoholic anonymous.
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