He rendered to the frail spirit of music- a carefree, restless spark
Born to delight, often away from the mind, but never out of sight
He sang and danced and sang and danced
From the birth of the morning to the dying end of the night
Songs that captured the fierce spark of imagination
Something you could only experience but could not possibly fathom
He was the zeal of an operatic tearjerker, he was the phantom of emotion none could fight
Those who say, they know him, knew him not
His was the voice that mated with eternity, his was a persona inexplicable, not blithe
Whether it is Riders On The Storm or Light My Fire
His voice spoketh an incandescence that didn’t let one wallow in the mire
The concerts, the gigs, the shitfcukery and chicks,
To each of them, he was both; a firefighter saving mankind
But also the prince of despair
I tell you what, he was all of that but purely here with a suitcase full of songs
Each that perhaps stemmed from a space of longing
But for upholding the spirit of sound
He was, but the Shaman, not the showman
The one who tried to set the night on fire
Whilst dangling the line of limitation and incomprehensible
Akin to an unclothed mortal walking on a barbed wire
His own didn’t get him, how could they
When he was beyond normal human comprehension, born to sway
Beyond glory untouched by boundations or decay
In Jim Morrison’s lifespan, we heard, we felt, we experienced and we still do,
Things that though were born inside a recording studio
But were purely meant to widen one’s imagination
Then be it war, rage, rebellion, love, sex or poetry
Jim Morrison opened the gates of The Doors with such a profound sense of magic
That it did seem, on one occasion too many, that he went beyond himself, courting with the tragic
Doing music, not just girls, making love beyond the grasp of self control
Receding so often to what seemed dead ends, whether drugs, draining night-outs or that thing called the bottle
But despite it all, he hit the peaks not the falls
Of the joy of creation
Whether through lyrics that still haunt the mind and move the soul
And who knows, it could well have been the case for both- his fans as well as the sacred ghouls
The latter, according to Jim Morrison, possessed his soul
But who knows what is true and what fell foul
For we are here for the music and lyrics
The ruthlessness, the delight, the damage and destruction too
For let it be asked just how many barring The Doors could get you through
Further to the end of the night and beyond the coming of the day
Like holding a lightbulb whilst confounded by darkness; it’s like making a way
Making a way to get around the one who’d have awoken emotion in The Buddha
And would’ve put the abominable to shame
For in the hearts of hearts of this Electric Shaman
There lay such charisma and light
That it would sharpen the edge of a sword called intellect
And yet, depress the most hopeful of what he or she had to say
All of which makes sense for it’s true that there are things unknown and things unknown
And indeed, in between that stand the Doors
Of Jim Morrison’s endlessly enterprising spirit
That moved, cautioned, reviled, floored, and to both by the way:
Those that admire the profundity called creation
The wannabe hipsters who know nothing about music and just wanna slay!
