Brian Jones: The One RemainsA Poem by Duncan BrownWritten in flames upon flowing wine There layeth a name writ in
travesty In a drama of such telling
significance Consumed by life’s sweet
consequence And Times eternally chiming
paradox Of perishing so young and so
beautifully Leaving nothing beyond each
memory Shrouded in the dust of
fading history Before emerging into present
memory Caparisoned in the flowing
vestments That truth preserves for
future posterity As each season passes with
the leaves Rock and stone mythology turn
to dust Conscience reveals that the
one remains Playing in the band which
never fades While others fade away into
obscurity It re-emerges to confront the
future Satisfaction doesn’t flourish
on trees And dying is the short fall
to get free From the repertoire of life’s
destruction Deals are struck stone down
dead Bread is money and time is
history Each flows and ebbs so
differently Six strings recording every
mystery Reincarnation’s a repetitive
business Transcribing every soul’s
ascension Through the darkness to
eternal Deity Where death becomes an act of
beauty Like scripture writing its
own tragedy Performed in the theatre of
obscurity Though some are born to die
forever Fame’s the endgame for all
eternity For all those sacrificed so
beautifully Bringing the gift of fire to
humanity As did the poets from another
century And other souls of a shared
nativity Born to struggle for the
breath of liberty Dragged from the cradle of
obscurity And propelled screaming into
notoriety By chance or effortless contrivance Worlds gasped as they made an
entrance Caparisoned like hells
electric princes Promising everything except
salvation True nobility always honours
promises And this royal court was no
exception Street dancing was the new
revolution The architecture of all
future premises Constructed by the stones of
rejection Adorning the skyline of
creation Now dominates the line of
convention As worlds changed beyond
imagination In the caravanserai of
destructiveness Ringing around the three ring
circus Some souls surrender to the
quietus Falling down in the rising
golden dust As the troupe moves on so
inevitably Grateful to have known the
presence Of the prince of beautiful
musicality That raised an age into a
renaissance Some just wanted to play the
blues. © 2016 Duncan BrownFeatured Review
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4 Reviews Added on July 17, 2016 Last Updated on July 17, 2016 Author
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