The poets breathe shite. Age doesn’t endow us with additional skin. Rather it peels us, whittles us like some sad balsa onion until we are nothing but bruised core and aching resentment of the fluidity life once afforded. We grow bitter, but it is not due to any hardening of the heart. It is due to the helpless recognition of our vulnerability to the many ravages of time. Our lost opportunities. Our lost love. Our fading capacity to experience truth. Our scream against the inevitability of beauty falling through our fingers, forever to mingle with the mountains of regret at our feet.
There is nothing glorious in your Death, Daran. It was ignoble and undeserved. You should have died in battle, or in love, or on stage. You deserved a painful, bloody death, befitting a warrior fool. A prince of crazy. A stupid and glorious poet. We rained on people in our day. We were fire and shit and anger, flowers of the killing fields. That day has passed with you, and the fire with it. Like many who stood beside you, I will never burn as bright again, but oh, how we burned then.
The muses who commanded us, resplendent and perfect in their beauty, we will never know again. The brute force of our song forged of hurt and hope, we will never know again. Our anger, our violence, our will for destruction – all faded. In those times we crafted the men we became from raw experience, and the brutal pain of error.
Brother, you were a dangerous and potent force. You would not ever be controlled. You drove me mad, or perhaps I was mad already. I loved you then, and I love you still. For the ocean of change that we have traversed, and the change that is to come, I am grateful to have walked beside you. Goodbye, my friend. It’s been quite a journey.
Vale, Daran Pratt.