‘Twas a normal Sunday morning
In the town of Maryville
No person knew what was to come
Or whom that man would ****.

Rev’rend Winters read his sermon
And preached ‘bout happiness
They heard a pop, and then a click;
A shot went through his chest.

The gunman got the bible first
The book turned to confetti
The congregation was aghast
They thought this skit was petty.

Then they learned the awful truth
Their reverend was shot dead
Two men dragged the murderer down
To ensure he had not fled.

‘Twas a tragic day in Maryville
For those who made it out
They keep those who didn’t in their prayers
And for that there is no doubt.

He died that night
In a cheap motel
In Maryville Tennessee
$35.00 karma mixed with
The smell of curry
Coming from the front office
No one would ever understand
Why he chose to die there
Especially those few
Who claimed to know him well
The gravel parking lot
The towels you could see through
And the lawn chairs inside
For furniture
Made the connection and the
Endless search real
In a way it hadn’t been before
As he sat outside his room
Thinking about the end
The local construction workers
Remembered his name
As they called out to him
At the end of their day
Marking time by a weekly rate
In their rooms just down the hall
They remembered the little things
His own family had forgotten  
Or not so little…

           AND THEN HE DIED
       IN HIS $35.00 MOTEL ROOM

    HIS PASSING A BURIED MEMORY
  AND HEADSTONE FOREVER BLANK

(Newport Tennessee: April, 2013)

He died that night
In a cheap motel
In Maryville Tennessee
$35.00 Karma mixed with
The smell of curry
Coming from the front office
No one would ever understand
Why he chose to die here
Especially those few
Who claimed to know him well
The gravel parking lot
The towels
You could see through
And the lawn chairs inside
For furniture
Made the connection, and the
Endless search
Real
In a way it hadn’t been before
As he sat outside his room
Thinking about the end
The local construction workers
Remembered his name
As they called out to him
At the end of their day
Marking their time
By a weekly rate
In their rooms down the hall
They remembered the little things
His own family
Had forgotten
Or not so little

AND THEN HE DIED

In his $35.00 motel room
His fortune just buried memory
With its headstone forever blank

(Newport Tennessee: April, 2013)