Tuesday, June 2, 2009

an ode to jim morrison

Some say he was a poet
Some say he was a ghost
Sashayed on parapets
Of roofs and lives alike

Punctured with images
From an otherwise plain childhood
They pinched him every now and then

He dabbled with pain
Death was his high
Words were his flight
The snake was his respite

He traveled all alone
Whether they were his barred caves
With Indians and lions

He talked only to himself
And listened only to himself
Writing fresh chapters
Experiencing gravity-less highs

Words cascaded from his mouth
In the voice of gods
He listened to his voice when it came out
And heard gods speak through him

He saw life standing from a bridge
Which parted the known from unknown!
And felt torn apart in both directions
Like he felt torn between Pam and the rest

He reached every unknown destination
Riding the alcoholic ocean
He saw ever light
Through the marijuana rings

He rejected all the circles
Of reason and boundaries
And only saw circles
That connected him to it all

He freed himself from the locks
Of the cages that we aren’t born with
He chose the wilderness of pain

originally published for passionforcinema at http://passionforcinema.com/an-ode-to-jim-morrison/

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