Poetry For Everyday People
He Was An Artist
Time still,
my friend in
his coffin,
he's dressed in
black shoes
black socks
black pants
black Hendrix T-shirt
black jacket
black shades
black blues cap,
so am I.
Nobody ever understood
us, and now the wind
is silent, the cold
could almost freeze
my tears
but Jim Beam lets
them roll,
his parents and
their friends
thought we were
all lost souls,
they didn't know
we were writing
poetry, symphonies,
songs, painting
the world through
eyes of fire,
they all slithered up
one at a time
searching for a
final rumor
as the Cadillac preacher
preached about
misguided youth,
I whisper as he's
lowered,
I'll be back
brother
when all the killers
are gone,
he smiled,
winked.
my friend in
his coffin,
he's dressed in
black shoes
black socks
black pants
black Hendrix T-shirt
black jacket
black shades
black blues cap,
so am I.
Nobody ever understood
us, and now the wind
is silent, the cold
could almost freeze
my tears
but Jim Beam lets
them roll,
his parents and
their friends
thought we were
all lost souls,
they didn't know
we were writing
poetry, symphonies,
songs, painting
the world through
eyes of fire,
they all slithered up
one at a time
searching for a
final rumor
as the Cadillac preacher
preached about
misguided youth,
I whisper as he's
lowered,
I'll be back
brother
when all the killers
are gone,
he smiled,
winked.
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He Was An Artist
He Was An Artist
