You see them in their sarcophagus, it's death. Gathering crowds. Their faces are paper-like, the decedent looks almost like an ape that is tired of climbing trees. They look so old and skinny, worn out, even the infants, decapitated and wrapped in ornate blankets. It's ruins, cracked stone, some of them look like a fallen horse, a drunk man bloated and black from the river swell.
Cancer eats them horribly, it takes the hue from their eyes, it's your mother, father, brother and sisters, they end with small gray patches of hair on their heads, ugly; and not who they used to be.
These things Christ blesses you with can give you a coldness, an empty cell behind your eyes. Your ink blots and hurtful lines of a pen, your prairie of sadness you must share with scoffers and ungrateful people who point and mock, those who manufacture war and chaos, to offend the sword of the Pharaoh is to speak true like an angel sky-walking on the glowing clouds.
See the world as it is. At sun-fall, speak the truth. Be made of light, be as light is. Rather be in a burrow with lions, melting into a Sainted body with soft skin, lamp-lighting a body that is no longer alive, surrounded by wax flowers, the pristine prayers from Heaven.