The man soared.
If passion had a vessel of flesh and bone
he would be it.
The face of a cold-blooded killer
slithering past the hopeless lambs.
Every drop, a lethal bite.
So few stood a chance, and none walked out unscathed.
Eight seconds to cross the line,
twenty four to leave their jaws hanging loose.
And now they do again,
not out of elation, but grief,
for all it took to take the king
and his rightful heir, the woman who never became,
was the blur of morning.
You still had so much more to give,
and she had everything left to conquer…
A handful of golden rings later
you are most survived by the relentlessness,
the unwillingness to be outworked by anyone.
A one-track minded colossus.
There has never been one quite like you,
and there will never be another.
Godspeed, Black Mamba.