All hark the bell that tolls so clear,
the King of pop is dead.
His image flashed on evening news,
a heart-attack they said.
No more dance, nor diamond glove,
no Bad, nor Billie-jean.
The most amazing talent gone,
best dancer ever seen.
The songs he penned, his lyrics deep,
his inner thoughts surrendered.
And for his magic, not bad press,
is how he'll be remembered.
A gentle man, misunderstood,
by media, painted monster.
So insecure about his looks,
sometimes looked like an imposter.
He's gone now but we won't forget,
the joy he gave us all.
And hope now that he rests at peace,
his final curtain call.
Heath Gunn copyright 2009
Heath Gunn
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/michael-jackson-s-gone/
