The young TV star rode the fame whirlwind
Like a surfer on a wave.
Everything he thought, said, did
Or thought about saying or doing,
Was tweeted, Facebook-ed, You-Tube-ed
And babbled brightly by tanned anchors on
And then he crashed,
Found dead in his hotel room.
The internet exploded like a
90 pound hornet’s nest
Dropped from a high rise.
People were stunned, sad, bereft.
They offered tributes, raked over
His brief career for highlights,
When the coroner’s report was
Released: overdose of heroin and alcohol,
Some were shocked, most were not,
Many wrote essays on addiction and fame,
And then. . . .nothing.
I don’t know why the silence that descended
Like new snow over Ireland bothers me so much.
After all, what else is there to say?
A report on the slow decomposition
Of his organs?
Updates on his soul’s journey
Through whatever purgatories
Or realms of bliss it traversed?
True, there will soon be a funeral.
Flashbulbs will bathe black-clad celebs
As they exit the church,
Someone will hold his mother’s arm.
And then buzzing will still again.
Until the leaves turn,
When his character will be written out
In a special two-part episode.
Unless the writers decide his
Handsome cousin should
Come to town or his on-screen
Girlfriend should have a pregnancy scare,
All mentions will then cease.
The new-shorn hay lies still in the grass
As the mower passes on
Heading for the long stalks
Waving brightly in the sun.