He had pictures in a dusty stack,
Joy flowed out from every frozen stance
As he leapt full meters dancing the gopak.
I often think about that,
Everything I loved about him,
My favorite moments and most influential chats,
The smoke of an empty shell casing expressed as his whim.
Poor man drank himself dead
All while entertaining my young self.

More than most, his imprint is pressed upon my head,
His humor and wisdom were both top shelf;
He offered so much guidance through film and book,
When I needed it/him more than I knew,
We stayed up all night discussing his life, what it took,
And thus I learned about mine and grew.
Coy was I in response to his caring stance,
Until he took his own life, and it destroyed me, but…
Boy, let me tell you, that man could dance.