~ for a friend dead of cancer at 48.

We are no more
than fragile meat puppets.
Decades ago, I saw men
blown to tiny, random
bits of flesh.
When that happened,
we had a saying, a chant:
Don"t mean nothing.
Didn't mean the comrade
meant nothing, just that
death means nothing,
only life matters.
We all have a bullet
looking for us.
Your's found you too soon.
Still, your life was good.
Don't mean nothing.
I'll miss you.
   ~mce