Twenty-seven – hellish young to die
The price of fame is way too high
Young promise despite childhood torn;
Amy Winehouse was a pawn
In a crazy game played without rules
Real life recorded on tape spools
Touched by genius, sultry voice
Too much cash, too little choice.
Ensnared, and buoyed up, held aloft
Her fragile body was too soft
To resist the onslaught on her frame
She needed help – she took cocaine...
Found all alone one July day
In her London home, she'd slipped away
Alcohol failed her at the last
Her bright star rose and fell – too fast...
(c) Poet in the woods 2015
Found dead on 23rd July, 2011