His corpse a battered mess

Wasted, totally wasted

He lies forever still

In death as still as stone

The grave his home for now

Until reclaimed by dust

He’s taken in his prime

Untimely is the word

And his death might have been quick

Or slow, painfully slow

But dead and gone he is

He leaves a yawning void

His kith and kin alike

In grief, profound and plain

His country has lost as well

Humanity poorer by one

The cause of his demise

Is AIDS, which has struck not once,

But again and again

And again and again and again

The enemy in our midst.