Own

His voice coincides with passion
How a taste of his words would fulfill.
His comedic sense of lashing
Still heaven provides no will.

Poetically spiraling
Although he leaves no trace.
Gone before the cast is set
The sea moves no pace.

Ah me, mistaken for lost
Yet now I find myself ease.
Togetherness with those words
Would immune us from a peace.

(For peace, it grows tired
Of simply being good.
That we must be opinionated
A question what we should.)

His voice, how it coincides with mine
The soul of a shot
For it would be a shame
If we kept pattern
In this world of not.

ER