The caretaker of her own legend
sat and watched, as years went by.
She remembered the doors of perception,
that had coldly closed.
The morning suns that had set softly
on her own thinly disguised eyes.
The world could have been hers.
Maybe even was for a while.
But the world didn’t come with a manual for vagabonds,
so she threw it away.
It wasn’t her destiny,
to sing rich kids blues
in a gilded cage.
Falling from grace
A pretty face
was no protection from
No one asked Sister Morphine
if she’d come round again.
No one cared.
But the street singer
hadn’t sung her last farewell.