Warner is good,
Warner is great.
Warner knows why I’m always late…
He’s neither a crush nor someone I hate,
He’s a star that glows and knows how to wait.
“Stars are not here to be pretty,” he said.
“They’re here to guide us to what lies ahead.”
His words of truth remain with dread,
But lights me at night when I lie in bed.
He’s bossy, arrogant, and misunderstood;
A whisper at noon that searches the good.
Look at his eyes, they will tell you his mood.
He puts secrets in sleeves and trust in a hood.
His sword weighs too much, he’s anchored by the pain.
His body falters and drips with disdain.
He sees everyone taking two steps away,
He’s a thought—a clamor—with nothing to say.
Warner laughs when I tell him my dreams.
When he smiles, he can’t see I’m at the seams.
Warner has a voice that beats the sun’s gleam,
I think he’s the captain of the football team.
Warner hears muffled voices and a cry,
He sings to the trees asking for a reason why.
He laughs at his own joke and will look to the sky.
He’s a bird with broken wings, still learning how to fly.