A wailing chord that tore the night in twain,
A rebel’s fire strung fast upon the wire,
He struck the sound where chaos held domain,
And birthed a force both violent and dire.
No courtly tune, no gentle minstrel’s play,
But fury shaped in jagged, roaring might—
A storm that turned the dark to fleeting day,
A spark that burned with ever-flick’ring light.
Now silence stands where once the thunder rolled,
No frantic hands to conjure forth the flame;
Yet in the echoes, fierce and uncontrolled,
Still rings the legend carried by his name.
Though death hath laid his flesh beneath the clay,
The riffs he forged shall never fade away.