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As I lay down my head to seek rest, his words of love, compassion, anguish, and hope run through my mind. his wisdom was beyond his years, his love was, what can only be described as agape love. I lie there with his sonnets so beautiful only angels can whisper them to me.

They leave me wanting to hear more, even through my exhaustion. I close my mind to external distractions, reveal in my daily victories and morn my losses, but then I remember a verse that takes me back to my first love. A sonnet so engaging that my life seems mundane and in need of yet another of his sonnets.

If only I could pick up a phone and hear his voice to lull me. If only I could tell him of the value of his words. If only I could see his face.

But his voice was silenced. His ears deafened. His beautiful face I will see no more.

His life was a poem that only he could tell. Violently silenced by the cold, hard steel of death. Taken to young. Only a handful of his poetry can his children remember, only two and a half decades can I.

Learn more about this author, Sharon Smith.
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