Eulogies are the sympathies

Of a thousand-word cycle

To the mad imagery of life.

Your beauty is as believable as the small token

To your misery.

You have silver drawn around your eyes

Like the open curtain that floods the room, with the moon's rays.

You are as lonely

As the eulogy spoken by the priest, not by the mourner.

Your hair comes close to your bosom, close to your heart

Speaking of all you have lost in your depth,

To be buried, in its depth.

What do you feel, truly in yourself

When you see the sun, for its warmth?

Are you, as you state

Contemplative of death?

The loss has been so apparent to be seductive

Of your lips against the cross

For your sin could become the world's own

As it did die for your growth,

The world you knew.