Elvis
He set hearts on fire
With gifted voice, guitar dreams,
Stifled urge to breath, just breath,
Exhaling the still, cool peace,
More than just make believe,
Not just instinct – but grief,
The war between lonely and greed,
Hunger for the music, the rhythm that bleeds,
In turquoise wishes, quiet blessings
Pouring out hope through the endless feelings,
Blowing on winds, passions
Stirred by the brilliance, the sweetness,
Pleasures in whispers, sighing
Concealing the melody, the music
Like breathing – inhales freedom, exhales
The presence of a gentle, fleeting
Feelings, flowing through the melancholy,
Urging the spirit to see past loneliness,
Into the song, still breathing,
Like it lives in the guitar’s uniqueness,
It’s gift – on the wind,
Autumn bringing a sensitivity, a grieving,
Never stop believing,…
He set hearts on fire
With silent twists of faith, fate,
Shallow along the edges,
The shadows, like his shame,
Echoing the music, in verses, lyrics
Essentially all the good things
That come from light, love, laughter,
The music a hypnotist, compelling souls
To listen to the tune of emotions
So risky, yet like the shadow, it held hope,
For the moments when morning rose,
Silencing the dark with sparks of joy,
Illusive like the silhouettes of a promise,
But maddening as the dance
Between hope and hopelessness,
The waltz between truth and lies,
The tempo that bleeds dreams in the stars,
Like a wonderful that never dies,
It is inspired by the breathless nights,
Twilight bleeding its tones, so gentling,
Soothing away the fires of deceit,
Risking the prayers that won’t fade,
They’re a reality, smiling,
Even beyond the grave, his mother
Like a star, clinging to his heart,
Breathing light, on the skies of atonement,
Where flowers bloom, a tomb,… he could not die –
Even though he died, people decided,
He was still alive, just in hiding,
Their words sought the papers, the news,
Burning on the edge of his spirit,
A shadow of one heart, starting fires
In pages where he still cast an exciting flame,
Passionate as the pleading voice of fame,
When will his fire spin out of control,
Burning up the past, reflecting the last
Words from someone who could not hide,
From the gift, talent that blazed on,
Bringing his spirit through the winds of grief,
Silencing all the voices in his head,
Telling him … he’d soon be dead.
Yet, he lives on, through a song, a star,
Never allowed to move on, a fallen star.
Copyright ©
Regina Mcintosh
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