The Man The World Sold

You never really had a chance;
The day the world stopped - for you.
And for the generation
Whose hero lay in a pool of blood.
That cold, grey morning,
which seems so distant now.
When a reluctant piece of lead put an end
To twenty seven years of
Hurt, Suffering and Emptiness.
All that was left was a gaping hole -
In your head and
In the belief that music could save the world.
The flames you lit
in the hearts of millions.
Were doused by their tears.
While those millions wept,
A few enlightened ones smiled to themselves.
At the impudence of an idiot.
Who had set out to change the world overnight.
But ended up slain by his own hand.
A generation which had awakened momentarily,
returned to its deadly slumber.
Angel hair and baby breath
couldn't hurt you.
What did was love.
Love which was not just blind, but dead.


And now the guitar lies abandoned in a dark corner.
(Its always less dangerous with the lights out)
Among a pile of needles and shards of broken glass.
Covered by blood like rust.
It has forgotten how its master looked.
But remembers his magical touch.
On its now torn and tattered strings.