For Hyatt Mason, taken too soon

He was lichen on a rocky outcrop,
Always facing the sun,
Unapologetic for stretching out,
And evergreen, gargantuan in a small frame on an everglade,
Porous spores splendidly sporadic,
Erratic and manic as only poets can be.

He had hip hop for his marrow,
Rhyme schemes for his blood,
A smirk that spoke of all the works in the library in his mind that he’d find some time later to write,
But in the interim he just kept living,
Flushing cheeks with the way he’d always be grinning,
Yet the noose swung serenely and so many poems were never writ by a twist of the wrist explicitly shifted to land of the shades after land of the living.

He was a koan,
Incomprehensible, intangible,
Sharp angles of thought compressed
In a thoughtform, he was abnormal in the best possible way,
With a mind for days that conveyed deep-seated ideas over a joke and a beer,
But darkness did descend on my once and present friend.


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