Man To Myth (Poetry)

The man who was alive is dead
a saintly wreath upon his head
we measure every word he said
his lyric wine his poems bread

His image cherished everywhere
his shaded eyes be-hatted hair
raised to fame’s exalted chair
beyond all touch beyond compare

The man he was to myth has gone
the legend grows as time rolls on
the father’s art bleeds through his son
who lets the flood of music come

He did not die — the singer lives
thus song-excited air forgives
his voice recorded while love sieves
those echoes faith once wrestled with