of the anti-rejection drug he had to take for a transplanted liver.
At his last he hugged his mother, smiled and died.)
'Twas past midnight, lying in bed
but sleepless I chanced to read
of your wondrous becoming dead.
I mean no insult, Ben but awe
which bids me praise your gesture so
sacramental, with grace to bestow.
One cannot simply say: c'est la vie.
'Twas not that so to me.
There's heart in that dark mystery.
Yeah, we do, are going to, will expire.
Brief time's passing may just require
sour, lame, languid spirits at the bier.
We may be mere vessels of mortal clay
that form and grow and then decay:
ashes to ashes is nature's way.
Yet, Ben. You must now know:
something in, of us survives to show
that which your gesture was--
the way to go.