At Jım Morrıson's Grave
At the Cemetery of Pere Lachaise,
there was a grave without a tombstone there.
There was a plastic wreath
and scrawls of chalk.
Across the mound the stray cats, scavenged
for there was no living prey to stalk;
While the earth consumed the screaming flesh,
the voyeurs came from cul de sacs'
to smell the grave and hurry back.
They'd mutter music is your only friend,
but for years no epitaph to say the end.
Then one evening late at night
The grave surrended its casket
To an early morning flight
Bound for the City of Light.
His parents left a tombstone there,
The only public statement of their loving care,
Inscribed on marble in ancient Greek.
Does it say his demons were his own
Or that he followed his spirit home?
Let the ancient language speak!
Many for our sins have died,
While we into our armchairs slide.
It was a time of revolution, poetry and love
With its own avatars like gods above.
And Jim, a martyr to our lifelessness,
We saw in him what could be done,
And how like Icarus, we fall alone
Then off to work we must be gone.
Topic(s): death of a friend
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Comments about this poem (At Jım Morrıson's Grave by Stephen Loomes )
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