Eulogy

If consciousness is a disease

then you were health in finest form;

strength pulsed in each step forward

toward the goal that chose you.

Night and day

had no claim on your kingdom

of crisp black suits,

trips to Europe, cars

icy to the touch.

It somehow happened naturally

to claim your immortality,

proven by comfortable days

ruling the world.

You didn’t mean to die.

I read the “Meaningless!”

wails of Solomon

over your bed of oak

lined with mahogany,

as luxurious and sleek

as a body bag can be.

I can’t bring myself to proceed

with the good words

I composed.

Honesty sits like gravel in my throat,

crunchy gulps to stop the lie.

No words can redeem

your life  

of false infinity.