His voice had the strangely broken timbre of a child,
Of too many souls, wandering lost in his throat
Too many hands grasping onto his for help-
I knew we couldn't last.

He had psychedelically tinted neurons
Well concealed within a brave countenance of smiling canvas
He had a magnetic core, of hot iron and paper mache
He slung words together like magic hash

I'm still haunted, in love with all the words;
There are thousands of phrases to fall for,
Before the world closes up shop forever-
But today, I wish for him only peace.