Twenty-seven with a sensible heart, kept his passions alive at all costs.
Smoked them when he had them, he drank his glasses to the bottom; running the race with the knowledge of the ever turning world.
At the end of that day there wasn't anything I could say.
Running the race with the knowledge of the ever turning world.
The ever turning world.
At the end of that day there wasn't anything I could say.
Now his words carry like wind, whispering poems in and out of the
Hallways and alleys of a canvas he called home; reminders for those who heard the echo of his voice, and comfort all those that still listen: He's a man that provided guidance to the like-minded, and validation to the pure of heart; a patron saint for the ones who felt
The solitary angst.
My friends were flowers once picked from the earth before cruel blooms and the wilt of pedals came
Planted as seeds settled long ago in soil soaked in whiskey and gold
In time I'll learn, in the last year I've learned
If I pray enough maybe a fire will come, carry us away
\N and down the road they walk.
I've prepared my suitcase the contents are as follows: Toothbrush, comb, hot water, music and the love I never had a chance to give to you.
Burn my body"
Burn my body.
Gather in the morning after mourning to see the sun rise and to still look up to you; to spill our tears into the fountain of acceptance and wisdom; to hear your voice singing along when the wind comes whistling through; to see your smile in every starry
Night gaze; to feel you here when we need you the most.
For as long as we're still here, you will never die.