When I look around

At all the fallen poets around me

Friends, family, strangers.

I think of you.

You who blessed my fingertips

You who gave my heart so much

And took a way much more

I think of how

Your hand no longer

Moves as mine does.

But I know.

I truly know you are happy

Where you are.

But I stand here,

With ink and sorrow,

To live out what you gave me.

A hand that writes

And a heart alight