To be in New York at the hour of your resolve
would be to contribute a tear with a titan
whom realized your misery,
and revelations.
To see your reflection in every mourner;
A kaleidoscope of what the head
could not surmise.
The downtrodder's voice
speaking out once more, for us.
Smirking,
and rushing through the streets;
The pallbearer of your own passage.

The gutters have lost their rat-king.
The utterance lost their laureate,
and I have lost a friend, to which,
our existence was never known.