Twenty Years
Little brother, I missed your birthday—
a week ago tomorrow.
Prob’ly would have if you were alive.
But then, I’d call tomorrow.
But I can’t—cause you aren’t here.
Death is cold. And hard. You aren’t here.
Twenty years have passed;
I don’t know your voice, Tucker Joe.
Sheol swallows all our loves.
I don’t know your voice, Tucker Joe.
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I think about Death a lot. Below are links to a couple of more normal essays - as well as some other, more personal, reflections.
A tip of the hat to a dear friend
