Soft was his voice
For he spoke in a whisper
Yet, a voice that rattled with rage as he screamed to the heavens
As he danced in his madness
For Jim had seen through the eyes of a blind man
Blind to the rules of the world that surrounded him
He walked where he wanted
Wrote as he wanted
Sang as he wanted
The new king who was always a poet
Writing what he saw in the next world
The land between realities and dreams
Where the Navajo cries still drift in the sand filled wind
In photos you could see this reflected
In the dark gaze of his eyes
Look close the next time you see him and you will see what he sees
Look past his stare
The same way he looked past the camera lens
Into the world of his present and future
All of his making
His terms
But sometimes living this way can be difficult
Even for a king
For when the edge is where your footsteps rest
One step over becomes far too tempting
At this point
The limelight can quickly change to no light
A place of no coming back to this world
For kings
This is often the case
But for poets of songs their words will live on
Each time you hear them played
Now the king sleeps in the old dirt of Paris
Under marble scratched and graffiti with names of fans
Obsessed with the poet and his words of song
Generations after his life
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