May 2017.
The world went quiet
and I was in jail.
Trying not to cry—
I wanted to be in the sky
or on a highway somewhere,
when Chris Cornell left
this earth,
that haunted
sanctuary of a voice
burning through the speakers
like a bottle rocket,
fighting demons in every note.
Robin—
laughter stopped mid-stride.
Comic genius swallowed
by despair.
A mind staring hard at reality—
what a concept—
turning joy into shadow
as dawn shattered
into a million broken smiles.
Chester—
two months after Chris.
Friends in life,
echoes in death.
His skin simply too
much to inhabit.
That climbing, aching cry—
crawling toward
something better,
or maybe just away from pain.
Three fathers. Three artists.
Burning too bright,
leaving too soon.
Demons whispering behind
their brilliance.
Bleeding inside…
behind the flame of Babylon.
I knew the nights,
tasting like whiskey
and
whispered hallelujahs.
The days overflowing
like rivers of shit.
I walked the hellish streets,
their voices my soundtrack—
numb and febrile under a
beaten sky,
watching the balloons float off
into someone else’s party,
demons trailing in every shadow.
I know the cost of
of feeling like you
have to be \"on\"
all the goddamn time.
Next month
I’ll be three years sober—
holding on to whatever light I can,
because I know the darkness
far too fucking well.
I carry their music,
and Robin’s laughter,
in my bones and bloodstream—
their pain folded into my own
black dog days.
Rest in peace, boys.