Your eyes gleamed over the

bridges of youth,

the kites that children raise

to the skies.

You wanted the earth to bow to you,

and called it freedom.

You called your pain and music– liberty.

The tragedy of each wasted day,

sad, glorious, and decidedly thrown away,

what rage you must have felt.

These flowers bloom in your martyred mansion.

Your fidelty to ideals, to liberate

the soul,

though to your sad eyes a failure,

were truly blessings.

You liberated me, Cobain, and taught me

to face cruelty with bravery.