He who takes the first bullet
on the battlefield of a child's war,
fighting like boys in their daddy's uniforms.
Playing “Cowboys and Indians”
With six shooters and nuclear bombs.
Who kills for his country
Whose country kills others
To you, Decessus, for the common good.

She who didn't want to play it safe
in smoke filled alleys
with city slickers and syringes
soaking in every last drop of heroin.
Convulsing on the table
Clenching her heart, screaming
“Come on Daddy, one more fix.”
To you, Decessus, for your own good.

The martyr who freed his people
marching through the Nazi death camps
knowing he will die.
But marching, silence
For this moment, he is a rock
But every great mountain soon erodes
For you the water rushed in a little too soon
To you, Decessus, for no good

Your eyes will stare cold and blank
at the lights in the autopsy room
hollow like a peach pit.
Your heart will stop da-dum
da-dum, da-dumming
and the drums will be silenced.
You might as well call yourself
an empty shoebox.

Decessus takes without a bias
He is greedy and malevolent
and picks around the garden,
sometimes taking out a Sunflower
or a half dead daisy or clumps of sod.
But it is his garden
and you are a simple rose
who grows silently and watches.