Change.

It’s clear that you are trying.
But things have changed,
haven’t they?
You have changed.

And that’s a good thing,
change is good.

But it’s clear, from us
looking in
that you aren’t quite yourself
you aren’t quite as we remembered.

And if you are,
then clearly we too, have changed.

But we haven’t changed,
not really, in the sense
that your new found glory
has taken control.

And if I’m wrong, tell me.
Tell me something beyond common sense.

It’s crystal clear,
isn’t it?
Us know-it-alls, know it all.
So for now, you’re out of the club.

And that’s a good thing, rest,
because we all come back eventually.

That Kurt Cobain.

He had his finger on the pulse of a generation.

And another on the trigger of a shotgun.

Depending on who you believe,

a conspiracy theory won’t bring back the dead.

A corpse doesn’t lie, it sings.

It sings all the beautiful things it couldn’t see alive.

Through sentiment.

Remembrance.

And praise.

Shedding it’s form.

It becomes an idol.

He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.

If he hadn’t wanted fame, Aberdeen would have gladly laid his grave.

And if not for boredom, then how could one know joy?

He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.

A sly dog, indeed.