An Ode

My hero is not dead 

But he does not roam 

This green earth 

He is scattered in the 

Depths of a river 

His dead soul is a flaming fie 

He is a phoenix like a red primrose 

Lilies piled high above 

His stage, in the center 

Spreading like raisins 

In a summer's February 

Captivating my soul with 

His songs and notes

Of advice filling me 

With hatred over his never 

Ending death.