He was a silvery, metallic vein of precious ore,
a star by which to light the ballroom floor,
flung outward into the distance,
yet never extinguished.
I loved him you know, maybe in the past-life,
in a room like this, next to a post-industrial-plot strife.
Damn the doubt, death dealer of life!
Maybe you know, he didn’t have to go;
our generation, we are selfish like that.
I wish he could stay, a young hip, sway to sway,
wearing kohl and flashing hexes,
and cigarette faxes every which way,
dipping his nose and ingesting those
pillars of household cleansers,
dabbling in an assortment of spray,
while taxing the poems of Wordsworth for play.
I wish there was a way…
that he could still play.
To him, I would say,
“Burn on, lodestar;
burn on, though you are far.”