IF I could have stopped you.
I would have jumped in my car, raced to Hohenwald,  and slung gravel as I sped down your driveway, braked fiercely to stop inches from that guest house,  and fly out  from the inside of my car,  screaming, "Don't do it!  I'm here,   Uncle Brandon!  I love you! We all love you! "
I would have ran up the cedar steps, kicked the door in with my foot,  and yelled as loud as I could until you answered me.
No matter how many times I yell at your headstone, you never answer me.
You were a cowboy, traveling all over the country,  and seeing sights that many would never witness in their lifetime.
You had broken every bone in your body twice
you had a sense of humor
intelligent (two degrees), both in English and Teaching.
You had dreams of being a lawyer and
a college professor.
Only you were a cowboy first.
You loved to ride,  and you loved with a heart bigger than Montana sky.
I wish you had not left.
I miss seeing your dark brown matted hair, peeking from beneath your torn,  curved cowboy hat as you tipped it at me, with a wink,  adding, "See you when the wind changes"
You were a poet.
I think of you when I write,  and part of me still blames myself for not telling anyone about seeing you at my work that night.  You looked awful and I knew something was wrong,  but I didn't say anything--I have no clue why.  
You loved life,  why did you leave?
You had love,  why did you look?
We were your family,  why did you leave?  
I shouldn't be typing this
You are dead.
The world lost a true cowboy.
A man that lived by the sweat of his brow,  and the dirt on his clothes.
I would have stopped you.  I would have grabbed that gun,  and hugged you for the longest time,  and then I would have saddled up your horse and one for me.
Then the four of us would trot along to the highest hill we could find,  and I would watch the sun move across the sky, and tell you that every sunset of every day is always different, so you don't need to miss a single one.

Uncle Brandons last poem
   Im riding. Riding this way is like playing a finely tuned instrument, at times delicate, at other times powerful... The true artist can play with equal dexterity a soft ballad or a crashing march.

A truly broken heart,
Shattered to bits,
Longing and hope become meaningless ,
There is no tomorrow,
Only painful yesterday's,
This heart should stop beating and bleeding,
It does no good.
It tricks the mind into believing,
That somehow, there is a post-poned disappointment.
Realized and manifested,
It becomes true.

Ebola, a portable killing machine.
No guns or knives.
Don't touch or kiss the devilish *****.
The dog that doesn't bite.
It's not rabid but it kills.
A dark hole brimming with fear.
Traversing through dangerous skies.
Worldwide transgression against all folk.
No joke.

For souls already caught.
I pray you rest in peace.
Under Deathly cape.
Cloak and dagger secrets.
Turning brothers against brothers.
Sisters against man.
The only place of residence chasing this disease.
Mercy be shown by research.
Stand up.
Take care.
Time to find a cure.
Thought zombies only lived in cheap time movies.
Or in the land of voodoo.
Ebola, bringer of the living dead.
(C) LIVVI

A women's trust,
An expectation of black and white realism,
A needful draw,
Of faraway expectations and illusion,
Coldness depicts and illustrates her,
She dines on pain and drama,
She lives only once a day,
Biting sarcasm and hurt,
She draws blood.
Vampirical.
Efforts to save me from her are pointless and completely ineffective,
She has me.
Held to the ground and unable to escape,
She kisses my face,
And I'm in love.

Sit still my son,
I have yet to call you,
The world swirls around you,
Awaiting a call to arms,
Soon my son,
A sword I will place in your hand,
The fiery voice I will give you,
Power over force,
When it is time.