IN MEMORY OF JAMES DOUGLAS MORRISON – POET
What drove that clown’s soul to destroy all the good in your life,
what thoughts held your reins, dancing on the edge of the knife,
so burdened with chains.
They remember how laughter came easy, was it just a token,
to displace thoughts dark, that had a Poet’s soul broken,
with the curse of Cain’s mark.
You were famous,yet no use had you for such material gain,
longing for your prose, not your music in memory to remain,
the door you couldn’t close.
Was it a final weakness, or that moment of sweet calm,
a gathering of grey mist, lured by your words and psalm
that you could not resist.
They say you were finally content, there in the city of lights,
and exorcised all the black, but still you drank away the nights,
on your alcohol bound rack .
So you slipped the bonds that tether spirit to flesh and bone,
with water,warm and serene, in strange dark rooms not your own,
an alabaster figurine.