Sit drinking not drunk. Not thinking, already thunk, about the funk I was left in when my circle shrunk. He stood tall in my presence when we lived like bourgeois peasants. No hesitance in action though he lived but a fraction, he lived. Day to day these memories he gives, truly not mine, but his. Created by he in the presence of we, the group of three, but not musketeers. Fools thrice. Unclear what the nice but naive hears, when lifes lived through fear. His eyes cast an image not timid, quite wise. I respected the chaos behind that gaze, and the light shone behind it, a true sunrise. My blessing was brief, the cohesion a relief, restoring a belief that Im still an Indian, no chief. Humble, while humbling, waking and grumbling. Leaving that joint stumbling, while puking and mumbling. We really felt like something. He was taken, not forsaken. Like the laws that we was breaking. Left my private heart confused and aching. But hes not gone. He lives long, like the night he played that song. No more words, only tears. My friend, my brother, I Wish You Were Here. 2003. Rest peacefully Dave, your brothers will always love you.
Posted on: Tue, 18 Nov 2014 02:32:33 +0000
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