I leave roses for the dead,
I roam the streets, unfed,
Unwanted, undesired, and I shed
A few tears of joy when I lay down a rose
On the grave of Jim Morrison,
A long-gone singer dead,
Surrounded by all the curious ones
Who stare at the decay of a star,
A brief light in the sky
Who danced until it was too dark,
And no one cries,
They just stare at his grave
As his corpse lies
Unfed,
Unwanted,
Undesired,
Dead.
I leave roses for the dead,
I roam the streets, unfed,
Like a living doll whose heart is not fully beating hard.
It is only a glass ball bouncing off the walls,
Slowly but surely landing on a river,
The river of no return,
And it dissolves
When summer comes,
I turn into syrup,
And only ants ever care to consume my substance,
You see, I am only sugar.
I leave roses for the dead,
The ones who roam the cemeteries, unfed,
Unwanted, undesired, they don't dance.
When it gets light, they beg on their knees and pray
For the dark to take the hole-less roof over their heads,
To fill the holes with the holy dance of God.
They beg to believe in the idea of divine power
And its love that floats in the thin air,
Like a bad joke, they laugh at it, then wholly embrace it,
Like a dog seeking love, lying on the floor,
Wanting nothing more in the world than comfort.
Oh, Jim Morrison,
You have my undying love