There are footprints limping in golden sand
meandering to the swash of the tide,
they stumble beside a body of life,
too weak for the forces that live inside.

Breaking news stung like bullets in his eyes,
delivering sorrow and his demise.
He lived like a ghost amongst picture frames,
reading the papers and scanning for lies.

He held music close to his beating chest,
for that soaring chorus, his heart's address,
and in days spent holding no one at all,
he'd talk to his posters tacked to the wall.

Women came and went like ships in the night,
too brief for the pillow, too smart to fight,
he kept all memoirs in his breast pocket,
clasped to his wrists, or hung as a locket.

There are foots disappearing in sand,
they succumb to the pull of Mother Land,
they exist in grains, now lost to the sea;
to the blue ocean of infinity.

We'll meet at the coastline, aeons apart;
we'll kiss this new freedom, this thawing heart.