Gibbons is the greatest there ever was,
Morrison said it better than all the rest,
Bukowski was the king;
this too shall pass.
like a river it flows,
on and on,
from here to there,
over before it ever
had a chance
to begin,
in the morning
you were gone,
never to return,
your taste still fresh,
your touch
lingering
on the wind,
your smell like
lilacs on a warm
spring day.
the last breath is breathed,
memories slowly die,
laughter gives way to silence,
the final journey awaits,
the empty darkness looms
ahead;
Gibbons is the greatest there ever
was,
Morrison said it better than all the rest,
Bukowski was the king;
this too shall pass.
.
.
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