A Rambling Raconteur

I was only 19 when we dug the plot
of land where you would finally rest.
And just like all children I never had thought
you would leave us somewhere less than the best.

Death was always tomorrow, never today,
or simply never for someone like you.
We picked our stories and the songs we would play
then cried a goodbye that never would do.

You were too much for this world to handle
but too little for this world to care.
Just a little Jesus with a broken sandal,
just some angel with the wind in your hair.

You never knew perfect, but never knew hate
and you left us all wondering why
a good man like you would daily fight fate
when in the end you got only to die.

You were more of a blacksmith and less of a hero,
melting our soft hearts to steel.
I guess you knew when your life fell back to zero
iron would would be easier to heal.

Yeah, I was only 19 the morning you died.
Who knew a dead man was hard to forgive?
But now I know, through the tears that I've cried:
your death taught me how to live.