I promised that I wouldn’t write you
Again until my book was done.
And then, with pride, would I invite you
To read the verses I had spun,
In hopes that you might find them moving.
Perhaps you’d see your health improving
Enough a concert tour to wage,
So I could see you on the stage!
For this I watched, and prayed, and waited.
Alas, the lines of fate were drawn.
One autumn morning you were gone,
And I was simply devastated.
So now I set myself to rhyme
Some verse for you, one final time.
I’ll never have the joy of hearing
Your voice in person. That still burns.
Nor see you act a role, appearing
Aloof and passionate by turns.
A part of me already misses
You taking bows and blowing kisses,
Exuding humor, grace, and style.
My heart would burst to see your smile.
Well, there will be no more ovations,
White roses at the curtain call.
You’re finite, now. But aren’t we all?
Though, quite despite my lamentations,
You’ve sung all you will ever sing,
There yet remains, perhaps, one thing.
For all my dashed hopes and frustration
This year, my writing grows apace.
You live in my imagination;
My novel’s hero has your face
And smiles like you. Although I’m saddened
You’ll never see my book, I’m gladdened
To think a reader might, some day,
Be moved by it in much the way
Your work moves me. In such a fashion
I think I might effectively
Do justice to your memory.
Thank you for all your art and passion.
I’m grateful more than words can tell.
Good-bye, my genius. Rest you well.