The death of every moon brought smiles to my face,
The long awaited deep voice was to be heard once more,
It brought hope and filled the hole in my pocket,
But not the end of that moon,
The sun set at noon, and the clouds buried the stars.
"There was always a response at the other side of the line,"
A man, he spoke with confidence and authority,
His presence shielded and elevated my soul atop this earth,
"But not the end of that moon,"
A man answered, he was cold and distressed.
"Where is the owner of this voice?" I stammered,
Moments turned seconds as I waited with drums in my heart,
That squeaky answer still resonates in my ears even after years,
"Not the end of this moon," he said,
He's vacated this world, he's gone, and he’s left.
That was four years ago,
Now my calls hit the woods and bring emptiness,
And the termites eat the words in my messages,
I muse day and night as the end of this moon nears,
For your voice, that very voice is missed.