Sonnet.

Now that you are resting, I will softly sing you lullabies, and whisper sweet nothings solely, the kind that even bitterness does not despise. I will tell you the tale of the sweet sister heroine who marched proudly along, who despite her many sadnesses still sang the sweetest songs. My guitar gently weeps as it replays your life, a masterpiece canvas that devoid of its strife, was often filled with more strength than even the sharpest of knives. As a child, I would emulate you, follow you around and mimic your every move. Now that I am older, your caustic wit, attitude, and confidence helped me get into and then remain in the groove. You are a legacy, an epic to be shared with generations to come, yet these tears fail to cease as I fail to feel numb. The weather was sweet, the sun you often referenced came out and shone bright for you, and as it grew dark, the mysterious moon made a magnificent appearance, so I could soundly say good night to you. With you serenely asleep, I will paint with vibrancy to ensure that my own life is twice as sweet, I will grow into the man who remained idle until now, and rise from the ashes instead of falling victim to defeat. I sing you to sleep, as I am rest assured that slumber has received you well, yours is a sonnet that my lips will eternally retell.