~
He was a man in service of the seeking.
Sworn to the storm.
Never settled. Never still.
Tuned to the frequency behind the noise;
chasing the next flash of truth,
the crack in the sky
where something real might slip through.
The answer was never the beacon.
It was the thorns – not the rose;
the hunger,
the howling lament through the palms.
He was an artist, yes;
a poet wounded,
uncaptured,
etched in emulsion
by pain so deep
it made the moon bleed.
Tenderness so unbidden it stunned the room.
He wasn’t effortless.
He was elemental;
ore upon pyre.
He danced with mystery
like it was an ageless foe.
Not some gentleman ghost
with perfumed pistols;
The sort with blood on its teeth
and a joke in its mouth.
Quarreling tempests;
they told stories –
tales spun for strangers.
We see you, Mike.
A Brother who stood against the wolves.
A frightful, whispering beast.
Fiercely.
Faithfully.
A Father who anointed his scars,
forged lore from their wisdoms
lit a luminous quintessence;
five stars
in the constellation of his name.
The grit of love
that doesn’t pretend
to be perfect.
He bore his wounds with a slow wink;
a gunfighter marked by midnight,
stitching legend into the sunset.
Future’s all yours, you lousy bicycles.
A man of smoke and signal.
Soul on celluloid.
Salt in the wound.
A name that rumbles
long after the scene has ended.
I beg you – listen, closely.
Menacing you nearer;
Laughing like a landslide.
Smirking into the snare trap.
Something left behind.
“Did you hear that?”
~
