Black Star, 3am

Black Star playing, 3am.

Three years now,
listening to a poets final refrain.

David Bowie,
the greatest artist I can name.

A reflection of my life.
A constant.
A spaceman.

Dreams cut off from ground control,
floating in a tin can,
beginning the final descent.

So he sings his final words.
He lets his saxophone soar.
Lays a dying soul bare.

No quarter given.
Nothing a dying man can fear.

Go on, look up there,
he's in heaven,
with nothing left to lose.

He dropped his beautiful cell phone.

So to tell us how to be bluebirds.

Show us how to be free.