waiting to live

He had a way of being

That turned heads,

Twisted tongues

And confounded countless minds.

This way about him was a certainty

Like death, and taxes.

And when he paid taxes and died

He did it his way.

And he was asked why, more times

Than he himself ever thought of dying,

Except there was no why.

The light of his way clarified everything.

If there ever was a path to why,

It might be said thus:

All that matters still remains

When everything is stripped away.

His way was inscrutable,

Undoubtable, unshakable.

Because it was his,

Because he earned that right.

And those pigeons that swarmed for 

The breadcrumbs of his thoughts

And asked why, why, why, why

Could not accept the answer was a way of life,

A daily practice unique to one man

And one man only,

Impossible to articulate

Or replicate.