death is not proud
when you are lying in bed
soaked with sweat
death is not proud
when your once muscular arms
cannot arouse the strength
to make a fist
death is not proud
when the bed you lie in
was placed there specifically
for you to die in
death is not proud
though some have called you
a proud, black, gay man

your voice
travelling high across the room
your thoughts
your motions
infected me
and i listened

i ignored your pain
and reveled in your
brilliance
and ability to deliver
a good anecdote

but silence, then,
was my weapon
and the pen and ink
only strength
not courage
and pride shot backward
into my face
like a cannon ball

while i was fighting
you were dying
while i was winning
you were losing
and it is too late now
to shake your hand
to say thank you
it is too late now
to shake your hand
and say i was not afraid
to shake your hand