There are no metaphors left for death.
The butterfly emerging from the chrysalis,
the carriage driver,
the journey across a river
whatever its name
are hollow by now.
One would think that
an experience that feels so new
to all of us
would birth in us words that could capture the pain.
This is the hard part:
the final kiss from the door of the house,
a goodbye to a tenant who would never
come back even if given the chance.
Only a final glance as if to say,
"I'll go on ahead.
You come later."
Oh, glorious risen Christ,
Defeator of this thing we see too often as an end,
give final grace.
You who knows the the stains of weeping
simply, quietly, hold us now.
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