The Biographer's Tale (Poetry)

I am writing the life story
of a man who rarely was
he’s a singer, he’s a guru
who’s a mystery because

like a media invention
he’s a shadow with a name
born defiant of convention
he’s too perfect to be sane

and his followers adore him
there’s a temple made of song
where his lyrics linger after
living souls have come and gone

He’s the poster boy of longing
crafted on some rainy night
while the winter trees were moaning
and the moon was lost to sight

He’s the gypsy king of legend
reading palms and living wild
he’s the lover writing poems
to the aging inner child

In his heart the shattered diamond
and the blood compassion spilled
for the naked and the lonely
that this hopeless world has killed

There’s so little I can fathom
of this man who’s barely there
he’s illusive as a phantom
I can’t pin him anywhere

In the halls of fame and fortune
he’s a wonder to behold
yet he dwells behind a curtain
where the facts remain untold

So I’m left with grainy fiction
more a novel nudging truth
weaving rumour’s contradiction
with no shred of actual proof