Thursday, November 6, 2008

To Jim...

The wind cried low over Morrison Road
the whiskey shed it's tears.
Sullivan hailed an exiled star
burned far before it's years.
Much too fast the papers say
yet the brightest stars outlast,
simple things like chasing dreams
and comets flying past.
Hippie, druggie, prophet
lost it in a flash,
sudden journey of the soul
an indian in the crash.
Driving force of millions
minion of the roast,
only sought to join the feast
that he enjoyed the most.

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