The glasses you peer over have lenses thick but entice the people you want to discover and do not change the fact you can stare into their souls.

Retrieve their hardships and feel them as your own.

Your words flow with truth even when truth is something you haven't been given opportunity to ever know.

There is beauty in a tortured soul and from that thrives like vines with tangled mind and suddenly you have managed to gain some mental control.

Auras of green yellow and pink like changing leaves that fall only when your internal seasons have to release the memories burst like a gust of wind craving to be exposed.

But this, my giving tree, is the beauty I need you so see and not dispose.
That when you write it's like planting an impact in someone's mind and allowing it to grow.

Smoke of cowboys killers and vices of late night talks and wonderful company. Have honestly helped me create the person I can allow myself to be.

The saddest thing I have seen was when you sealed that envelope. Put it in that mailbox and we drove down the road. Leaving behind your past pain from years of hindered hope.

As your story on your shoulder says you are always a free soul. And helped me discover the meaning of hope. And I want you to know how much you mean to me. That together we bind through our ideas of humanity.

You thought me to tap into my darkest through rhythmic repetitive jabs at my temples. And revived the only person I didn't know I could resemble.

So this family tree your now apart of can only be determined improved. And my sister is how now I'll always think of you.


Emily A. Grande