My stop on the Metro, Pere Lachaise
with rose plants in hand to visit his grave,
I adore the sights and lush sounds of love
So much that I become her wanting slave.
A thick misty haze obscures the city
The miasma staves the advancing sun
Morning dews mixed with chill, made it crispy
An autumn candid in September’s run.
We visit Jim’s grave in division 6
A spot where light splits into the darkness
Removing the devils grasp from his lips
And returning back to us the artist
If only we felt his intensity
able to bask inside that smoking haze
Understood his altered propensities,
to die here once more and reborn each day.
Here I sit silent on this lonely stone
Above a satyr’s shell on the concrete
Surrounded by graffiti and alone
in contemplation I felt his heartbeat.
He lived as a poet able to sing
Swimming in competing chlorine dreamscapes
No sanctioned marionettes pulled his strings
Free from the dreadful superhero capes.
Defiant showman and nurtured teacher
His lectured stadiums full of specters
The praised idolatry from his creature
In papyrus lit upon water nectar.
Sweet release, homage of his requiem
The iron drums cadence his spoken word
The press flies rallied for his compendium
Poetic works buried and never heard
The devil’s hellhounds struggled with heaven
For claim of the purity in his soul
The Doors opened for the day of his reckon
And his skin bathed within etheric glow.