I wished at some point that we would see Ashton Kutcher appearing on all screens broadcasting the service, and say “You’ve been punk’d- the King ain’t dead- this is the curtain raiser for the 50 concerts…” but we never did see that.
Or that it would go dark, and the casket would open and out the King of Pop would emerge to give fans a preview of the O2 concerts, but alas, it never happened.
Tears were mixing, some of joy and some of grief, all in all, tears wear flowing.
I watched the last rehearsal at the Staples Center and denied this man was dead. No, it could not be. He was the King… it was his final act, and after that he would go in peace. But nay, his final act never came.
He looked so alive, so dedicated, so passionate, so full, he was still excellent at 50.
I still can’t imagine he’s no more…
Been trying to download some of my favourite tracks of the legend, to try and keep a piece of him with me, but they are only images…I sense he is truly gone.
In his respect I thus write this poem:
Never get Used to
We must never get used to the day
Lest the evening comes, and the sun goes away;
When we bemoan the unfriendly silver moon
Whose light is not as warm as yellow sun.
We must never get used to the sun
Les the clouds come and darken the terrain;
When we scatter from the piss of the sky
Unable to smile or laugh but only to sigh.
For if night fell and none was prepared
No candles or lamps or handy flares,
Then cold and dark and deep despair
Would rise and hold us in his lair.
And rain would fall upon our heads
And wet our flour and wet our bread,
Washing all we treasure away-
Dust to mud, ashes to clay.
So when our Michael goes today
Leaving his gold and toys of play,
We must hope the sun does set
To rise and shine in glory yet.
But one Sun in your life remain
Perfect LORD, of ancient days,
Affix your gaze to Him alone
And reap of joy and peace unknown.