Short life, 33 years old and dead already.
Shooting Star, brightening the sky, caught a glimpse of it.
Gone, did I make a wish?
Crystallise, mummify, crucify, cannot fix it, anyway.
Canonify all we like, glorifying the being we thought you were,
Believing the badly re-ashed, will the Phoenix rise again?
Whenever you may be, your ephemeral times left us ponder upon us.
Wherever you may be, your earthly bones are un-earthed and defiled by our bad adoration.
We cannot lay you to rest, seekers of the waning truth that was you.
Left orphaned, lost sheep gathered by blind shepherds, following and falling from cliffs.
Left inclination, the August adulation stroking your face crushed your bones.
The great Sphinx has lost his nose, resting after his many battles.
Singing the praise of the beloved ram, it went too far away, it went his way, poisoned away.
Sealed from sight by the Severe, so many secrets swallowed in his knowing breast, hidden away.
Gone for within the name is the Word, it holds Man within its breast, his plight, his fights.
