Heroes never die…
Their bodies loose that common texture known as life
while a thousand times enriched by death, their quintessence lingers on.
A hero’s fate is not to die in bed, conquered by old age,
a hero’s destiny is the battlefield, not diabetes or Alzimer’s disease.
Go, go brave man, warriors deserves a sudden death.
On a sharp bend, a Daytona coupe careened - - slamming into a tree --
so was earthly existence snuffed for Aussie legend Peter Brock.
And Death kept watch each time Steve Irwin kissed a tiger,
or toyed with scorpions, swam with sharks, or hunted crocs.
Though a hero fears it not, he’s aware of his companion’s presence,
invisible, mysterious, well-known yet unknowable, haunter, not hunted,
feral essence never tagged or captured for the zoo. That’s Death!
To a car-crash or the barb of a black stingray, unconquered heroes
freely yield, by Death immortalized, rejoicing in Elysian Fields
