From The fading Light of A Dying Star

From The Fading Light Of A Dying Star.


She was a living doll
who walked this earth,
some 46 years ago,
till sorrow
cast her aside.

She was a plaything
for the directors
and producers
that endlessly
her many poses
on the glamour and glitz
of the Hollywood stages.

She became the epitome
of all men's dreams,
in the flesh,
but her own dreams
were shattered
in the rush to fame.

She worshipped tablets
that spelled out highs,
and eventually
edited her from life.

She died undressed
in her luxurious bed
in the wee hours
of her last mourn,
the phone off the hook,
the pill bottles emptier
then her eyes.

I always thought
that if I was a
famous fashion designer
I would craft
a lovely set of pants,
in her honor,
with her picture
stitched on the
back pockets.
I even hold
a patent on
this idea, but am
lacking the funds
to make it

I would simply
call them,
"Norma Jeans."

In tribute to
the frail
and lovely
Marilyn Monroe,
a living doll,
stashed in a dusty
cobwebbed pocket
of my mind.


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