He started out
in a nursery,
and soon I'll mark
his deathiversary.
It's safe to say
he's not quite burgeoning,
six years past
his corpse's hearsening,
and though his song now
seems a dirge to me,
for me his remembrance
isn't cursory,
even with past times
now worsening,
then improving,
their statures serpentine.
If only I could speak
a bit more assertively,
to keep his name in the air,
not covered in dirty leaves.
Alas, I suspect more languid,
soft murmurings,
hushed tones, then silence,
thenceforth, universally.
