He was always made of gold,

like a sunset I could hold,

cradled in the palm of my hand,

until his hourglass ran out of sand.

He laid on his back watching the stars

and cursing his family’s name to the dark

until he fell asleep in the empty lot.

He said he's never quite sure of what he wants.

He killed his enemy to sit in the bloodstain

and cry all of his youthful gold away

because he never meant to use his blade.

That was the night he started to fade.

He sat smoking on the church steps,

with the poem he always kept

stuck somewhere in the back of his mind,

next to the peace he could never find.

He was a hero when the roof came down,

his gold adorned his heart like a crown,

and with all of the burn scars and broken bones,

his gold never once left him cold and alone.

He told me with the love of his last breath,

how he no longer wanted to be dead.

His sixteen years could never be enough

when he had died with so much love.

He closed his eyes in a solemn goodbye,

a flickering candle knowing it will die.

He said with all the wisdom of old,

in his dying breath, “Stay gold.”