For Philip Seymour Hoffman Poem by Michael Shutt

PSH

Born in '67,
gone too soon-

on a lonely bathroom floor.

Oh, Phil,
why did it
end this way?

You had so much
to give.

More greatness
lay in store.

Instead,

It ended,
by Yourself.

On a lonely
bathroom floor.

You left behind
a legacy of
strife filled roles-

Ambitious Souls-

With darkness,

Angst,

And Tenderness.

And now
an empty
future looms;

No more Tonys,

No more Oscars,

Just a final
Curtain Call.

Taken on
a lonely
bathroom floor.

We grieve
for You,
that Vicious Demons
led You to
this state.

And contemplate,

And mourn,

The loved ones,

Children,
left behind.

The awful waste
of Passion.

Greatness.

And so,

Capote's Channeler,

and Brendan Flynn,

and Lester Bangs,

and Freddie Miles,

And last,
not least,

The Master's Voice

is memory.

It died alone.

In unknown pain.

On a lonely
bathroom floor.

Feb.2,2014