To the one who barely breathes
Speak of deathly hope,
That a future is as malleable as silver,
That the unpredictable
Can be so formed as the present
Where the moon colors
This world in its weeping.
Twist the fog towards the image
Of barren truth
For the one with dutiful desires
With great dreams
Only ever lived
In the world of the dead.
Bend immortality onto its opposite,
For when hope brings
Only more pain,
Hands can depart
From the other
Without the weight of the keeping
In moments not spent in peace.
As flesh becomes,
Settle beneath the whisked eyelids
With sight upon eternal Heaven.
While tears of grief
Raise that great sculpture of remembrance,
With hooks already bent.