there are marks we leave that cannot be erased even by waves that come again and again
like the ink on your skin
and the softness of the soul that cannot be hidden in the chaos.
the music dies in the air and joins the rest of stillness.
it finds refuge in ears that will listen. it remains, never leaves.
wax and wicker, ink and skin, clouds and guitars.
rest, rock, and roll in peace, Karl Roy.