he was my guidance,
the flame that lit my soul.
His slightly tanned hands molded me from a
lump of cold clay.
He shaped me, a linguistic michael angelo,
he carved my mind with his mellifluous words;
each one twisting my spine, vertebrae by vertebrae until I cannot go back to the way I was.
He was my Zeus, mighty and sempiternal, He is the one who drew the map and led me
away from Lost. He is the one that made me lift
a pen and make shapes that freed my mind. He is the one that taught me how to teach.
He is the one that my soul will miss most. He awakened something
in me so real, so alive, that no matter what weapon the monster beneath my bed shoves
into my hands and whispers wickedly ‘do it. do it for real, this time’ I will refuse. I will embrace the