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A DIFFERENT EYE 
(When I Think of David Bowie)

When I think of David Bowie, 
every song he sung was showy.
He was sinewy, not doughy, 
cause the white stuff was so blowy.  

Yet his music was amazing, 
and the concepts were so blazing.
He could sing and act while crazing,
in the phantom vision's mazing.  

Bowie, so alien and odd here,
with the drum beat in his mind's ear.
His words were pointed and austere,  
with a life that pushed away fear.

He was always introspective, 
with one eye on the collective.
He opposed mankind's objective,
that obsessed on one perspective.

He was stone handsome in his face; 
Bowie moved with abstracted grace.
He transformed all the arts in place,
while his mind was off-course in space.

He is the man that fell to earth,
crashed dim, in umbra at his birth. 
He's the Starman in his sole worth, 
pursuing Lazarus's rebirth. 

Bowie's life burned awfully fast,
for lots of roles in which he's cast.
The fluid flame can never last,
when it darts missiles from the past. 

Now he's dead and they are praising, 
his work, once found self abasing,  
in the lyrics of his phrasing, 
they find now, is curtain raising. 

We will miss his mystifying,
that he sang while he was dying. 
Cause he's deft in his defying, 
his Black Star persists in flying.

By Edlynn Nau

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