Rapture

A whiff of weed, a spidery tattoo.
You veered all over, with your band.
A startled goddess of incense and kohl.
No, you were never safe, or bland.
Most of us stay in the middle – not you.

Some who with the devil sup
retain no sense of ill, or wrong.
We observed your imperiled innocence
through each false step and slurred song.
Fascinated and appalled we pulled you up.

Immortal beauty does not age or cough.
Fire is dangerous – you touched a lot.
It burned you through. We did not see
that your nerves were gone, your lungs were shot.
You teetered to the edge and fell off.