Nestled in a peaceful spot
within a growing metropolis,
surrounded by strangers,
friends, and peers,
you rest...
In death, as in life,
you were raised ~
enshrined in marble,
like the pedestal
upon which you were placed...
Admirers look up at you --
unlike those
entombed in the earth,
to whom folks
need to look down...
A simple marker
inscribed with a name ~
one bestowed by those
who sought fortunes
off your mid-west
girl-next-door looks
and innocent personality...
A name immortalized,
but not one
that truly fit you.
A bench sits nearby,
one where a former love
would come to reminisce ~
keeping alive
times you shared together...
For twenty years
he sent roses ~
perennial tokens of his love.
Lipstick traces,
left by adoring fans,
serve as loving remembrance
of a life cut short ~
none of them ever really knowing
the little lost girl
in Hollywood's great big world,
a small-town beauty
who never felt pretty...
Before you was made into
sexuality's premier icon,
you felt like you never belonged ~
to anything,
or anyone else...
Before silver screens,
red-carpets,
paparazzi and fame,
you delighted simply
in seeing someone smile...
Before your name,
your identity,
and your image were changed;
before she was known
the world over as Marilyn Monroe...
You were simply
Norma Jean.
Honorable mention
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