Thirteen Ways of Looking at Him

He wears a backwards hat that has been attached since birth.

It seems to cautiously contain his most secret reflections.

 

His hands are rough and scarred from the endless toil of his work.

They become the instrument that beats genius melodies on his guitar.

 

He has a laugh that echoes from the deepest chambers of his soul.

It seems unfiltered, unmasked, revealing parts of himself.

 

His eyes are blue with deepening hues of compassion.

They become a window through which he views his pain.

 

He uses his voice to paint each untethered word with calculated care.

 

He has a mathematical brain that solves equations for fun.

It seems he could find the root of any problem; he does not stop at fear.

 

His smile is comforting, childlike, carving into the fragments of his face.

It seems to be his weapon, a talent, and his gift to never crumble.

 

He has a nature of independence and unrelenting motion under pressure.

It seems to melt and mystify the clouded expectations of critics.

 

His passion is a compass that navigates the road before him.

It becomes a map that collapses all the moments of uncertainty concealed in thirty-five years.

His heart is taller than his height, a lighthouse in the storm of other people's lives.

 

He has an undying sense of forgiveness, never buried.

It shatters through the surfaces and plants flowers in the wake.

 

His imagination is an ocean that swells and creeps to the shore.

It fills and lines the anxiety he holds in his stoic frame.

 

He organizes his shirts according to shifting shades of blacks and grays.

 

Even when the world is cruel, he sees in color.