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.
Like this:
Like Loading...