Death always gets the wrong ones:
Always reaching out a cold, bony finger
pointing his aim at the voice of the glorious singer
or felling with a sweep of his scythe, our favourite sons.
Death always visits those we can least afford to lose:
The ones that etch joy across our hearts
teaching us the ability to laugh.
They’re the ones around whose necks Death slips his noose.
Of course, there are none of us immune.
We will all dance his dance
Without fail nor chance,
For his piper plays that most memorable of tunes.
Some solace, then, in our joint condition,
and some satisfaction for saddened egos
in journeying the same route as our heroes
and passing with a hope of seeing one more rendition.
For each of those whom we miss the most
and for every performance marked indelibly in our minds
the ones that our memories always so easily find
allow us to cherish those that we have lost.
For my old mum who passed away seventeen years ago this week; for Robin Williams, one of my heroes growing up; and for everyone being forced to live and die in abject fear in innumerable conflicts around the world.