Ode to Robin Williams (July 21, 1951 – August 11, 2014)
Where do we go now, what do we do?
When you made us laugh, it seemed you always knew.
How to shrink the world, its doubts and fears,
into quirky jokes, that brought us all to tears.
Decimated I feel, and I’m not alone,
you left too soon, this makeshift home.
How many smiles were left, inside your heart—
how many soul-stirring lines, cast into the dark.
You were the funny uncle, I never knew,
The child in my heart, that never grew.
The clever comic, always racing by,
your colossal imagination, as big as the sky.
I’m just not too sure now, how to go on—
the whole world must feel, now something’s wrong.
Is the world so deaf, so dumb, and blind,
your brilliance was not enough to make them find?
The secret you carried, the frown beneath the river,
the pain that on hot summer nights, made you shiver.
Perhaps this cruel thorn, on the rose of your gift,
is what we needed, to make the final shift.
To start thinking of artists, for not just what we bring—
but the black sirens, that sometimes, in the dark, sing.