Sometimes I am envious of those who got to die heroically and be remembered well,
And not to have their long and slow descent to hell
Observed by children,
Who could never tell,
The depth beneath the surface.
To die in some historic just world war,
Fighting for their children in some glorious cause,
Hallowed tones and not metaphors,
Frozen in death at the peak of your,
Good and selfless deeds,
Though they were just the shiny skin,
The sacred and all forgiving covering,
That moment the shutter of history's lens
Closed
And captured
The best side,
They died
And faced no forensics.
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