The pen is mightier than the sword,
But put it up against a gun
And it wouldn’t last a day.
I grew up in those fairy fails
Of ‘Prince Charming’s
And dragon scales
And whistling whales
But my neighbor never living
To finish the tale.
He was a writer, talented,
And everyone knew it,
Till he was silenced forever
By that dancing gray bullet –
POW! Was the sound –
No wait, it was worse!
But nothing was worse than
The sound of that hearse
As it carried him lifeless
As if his life was less
Than it was really worth.
Oh how tragic a scene,
That reeked a stench of grief
And mourners with chests that
Had just been left
I stood, silently
I shook frantically –
SHHHH! Can you hear that?
I think it's the sound of my heart breaking
Scattered, in the illusion of death being defied -
Will someone please tell me his death's just him faking
Not knowing the little girl's joy he's just taking
But he doesn't.
Instead the magic pixies dance around
With roses in hand and then surround
His casket and lift it up high in such a spectacle,
So flawlessly without so much of a debacle,
but I was too hurt by the thought of his sepulchral
I used to believe that death was just an illusion.
That just before you died a flood of light would flood your insides
And save you but that was just a delusion.
Or that some girl would magically appear on a white horse
And wrap you up in her 12 foot long hair - and it would glow -
And you would rise and be held by the one hold dear.
But that too was just a wish filled with air.
So today Mister Writer, my neighbor, my friend,
It is time for this little girl's fantasies to end.
That she might one day lift you up from the dead
Was just a doomed dream from the stories she'd read.
Can you see that I'm no longer wailing?
My head's held high and my frowns are now fading
As I wave goodbye just know I'm not blaming you
For all your fairy tales magically failing.