Pen and Ink, which was your sword
to keep the Demons held at bay.
I remember how you calmed the Tempest
When King was murdered and hate held sway.
Wisdom borne of suffering then
You knew first hand of what I speak:
Of pain that drips, drop by drop
Upon our hearts while we yet sleep.
Then, barely two months afterward,
When your brother’s legacy seemed in your grasp,
An assassin’s bullets pierced your brain
And your night of Triumph became your last.