He was a silent man, a man of actions not words. When bullets rained down he did not clench his fist to the sky in resistance, he was sleeve less, collar less, scholar less, speech less. Never had the right words, but wrong place wrong time he knew the right thing to do. He never shouted out to retaliate, but when it had got too much he decided to kick the bucket.
When shit hit the fan, bullets bouncing off the ground, heart in his feet he ran. Left his children behind, words on their shirts, hearts on their sleeves, jobs on their collars, Nikes on their feet, fists to the sky fighting a storm, he ran, he left them all behind.
He was not a perfect man some say he acted rashly, impatient in manner but never fouled from the mouth. He had so much soul and so much character. Never one for small talk and when music played he danced.
When he came home tired from work, he’d never whine. He’d sit on the couch and exhale, sip on a beer and wipe the sweat from his forehead. When he loved, you felt in his alms, not on cards or in words. He was a man of meaning he did it best that’s why it’s fitting to see him rest.
tunasangwiches 