And we instead

Shall all grow old and die of so much lesser things,

Wrinkled and tired and feigning to relive

The battles that were never big enough to measure us anyway.

We will go quietly, quieter than we had hoped,

Ignoring the ignoble things, the obvious and the boots

That we never lived enough to die in anyway.

We will surely leave here a little too late,

A little too slowly, dropping the broken things

And the pretense

That we could ever be done with this life anyway.

And those few we must leave behind,

Those few whom we should have died for

Not in front of,

Those few will surely gather to shovel the dirt and casserole

And to comfort the living in small voices about this “blessing”

That was our passing

That was us losing the right of the dying to die fighting

So the living might live through the losing of someone worth knowing

And our passing too

Would really be no blessing at all.

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