He lit up rooms with timing so sharp
you’d forget there was ever a shadow.
The kind of man who could bend silence
into laughter—
as if joy answered to him.

Crowds adored the shine,
not knowing the cost of the bulb.
He gave what he barely had left,
turning his cracks into comedy,
his ache into applause.

Though, something darker
waited behind the scenes.
A voice with velvet teeth,
offering comfort for a price
too high to name.

It didn’t scream.
It whispered.
It laced his brightest moments
with silence that came afterward—
deep,
heavy,
keeping him alone.

He fought it.
Time and time again,
he rose,
he climbed,
spoke of healing
like a man trying to write a map
out of his own storm.

He wanted to help.
He did help.
Even as the thing stalked him
through years and milestones—
wearing different faces,
but always hungry.

He was more than the war inside.
More than the struggle that stole him.
He was a light we didn’t earn,
but one we were lucky to see
before it dimmed too soon.

He was—
a true friend.
Always making you laugh.
Always smiling
through the pain.
Always there for you.