He was famous for dying,

For dying in a land that wasn’t

his own,

For being braver than he was or

at least we think we know.

When you talk to his mother now,

She says she saw him on the scene

He was the last one to die, she says

He was the last to left to see To feel,

That the others no longer felt.

It was late at night and no one

around to see or hear it

But his mother did

Sometimes his father agrees

The whole world knew before they

did

His sister found his pictures going around

He was wearing white that now looked like red

He was famous for dying in a country that was not his own

He was famous for bleeding out

In a land of people that he always

wanted to look like

And maybe now he finally did

But it’s a little too late now

He was famous for his demise in a

land that was not his own

Not for his dreams,

Not for his skills,

Not even for the fact that he was

pretty good at football,

And had the voice of an angel,

That his parents now hope he has

become.

But really, is his death really his

own?

A lover, a friend, not even a

parent,

Mourns for the loss of his life,

But his death,

How it happened, when it happened,

how much blood there was,

Everyone manages to make it about

how they’re all alone.

A death is a reminder,

An epiphany,

A regret,

Perhaps, even a breakdown.

Most of the time it might even

be about you turning over a new

leaf,

It’s about everything and

everything that is not his,

But you and your loss, your change,

Really anything but him.

Only after you die, you become

acceptable or memorable

Or worse, both.

He was no different.

Everyone he knew forgives him

now and is full of love.

How would things be if he survived?

Only he knows.

I imagine him alone sitting in

shards of glasses,

With little life left in him,

Thinking about how this is the

first time in his life he wants to

live live live please

But there’s so little time and so

little light until there isn’t.