An Ode
July 15, 2013
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.
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