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A Eulogy, of Sorts – PT 2

So, was it?

So, was it a good life?
It is a compulsory question
at times like these
as though there were
some universal standard

Perhaps a titanium rod of a certain length
housed at the Royal Observatory
against which a life can be measured
and found sufficient
or wanting

Perhaps, the answer lies
with the feather in the jackal’s scale
or the entry in a ledger book
consulted by a bearded saint
outside a cartoon gate.

We could assess the fragments
that remain woven into
the minds of her children
to flavor their days
and shape their deeds.

Or interpret the ways
they demonize, or sanctify her
as the distance widens
the stories shift,
the edges blur with time

Truth, they say, will set us free
if only truth weren’t so illusive
so easily clouded by shame,
self-doubt, self-interest,
and abuse.

So, in the end, there is no answer
we cannot judge the life she made
nor how she made it.

She lived, she died
and in less time than her lifetime
she will disappear into oblivion
as all have done before her,
as we ourselves will do.


4 Responses

  1. Life in the hyphen.

  2. Beautiful. I loved it.

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