The Eulogist

Stored within depths
of ancient grieving, 
and inked on parchment 
of my memory,
are eulogies
for those I love,
but yes they are still breathing.

Death is a vague old friend
of mine,
a visitor of preemptions;
swallowing the dregs
of my best bourbon, 
while blabbering on
about redemption. 

I forgive the preaching, 
but not the bourbon,
and vowed to have
my own words written ,
before he reads
his next sermon.

Death expects too much,
too soon,
and time takes what remains; 
memories leave too little,
too late,
as shadows fill a broken cup 
and a loving beggar calls his tune.

Copyright 2019 by C. Max Schenk - all rights reserved, unlike my mind, which I explore with reckless abandon