You used to write only exclusives about the world ending.
A journalistic practice that would
never truly finish encapsulating the end
and accepting of that in itself.
You, my favorite soft, punk, folk singer,
always consumed in thought
and anticipating grief.
Oh, so desperately desolate at first glance.
Plagued by the uncertainty in certainties.
Still, you’re hopepunk
and move forward with a pen in your hand,
guitar strapped to your back,
and a smile on your face.
The joy in your actions does not fade,
the hope in your voice does not dissipate,
in a world in which tensions and temperatures rise,
and times continue to change.
For better and worse,
you know in yourself for certain,
if we live to see tomorrow,
you’ll write again at least one more day.
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