I hold the chalice to my lips,
And I drink your blood.

It sours in my stomach
Knowing that you died for me.

How much better had you lived,
What use do I have of High Priests
Who brandish the tool of your execution
To drive away the fear of death
In a people too neglectful of life?

We who worship death,
We long for it in our worst fears.
We call for an end to this world
And name it Holy Revelation,
This death everlasting.

Bowing our stoic faces
To the changing of your substance,
We secretly pray for changelessness,
Holding the wrinkles at bay, we pray.


Entombed in hearts of stone, we pray.

We make of our lives a casket
Sealed against the worms
Of life's intrusions.

We make of our lives
A cemetery, which we groom
With plastic flowers and fences.

We make of our lives
A scrapbook of "could have beens,"
Which we bury under a heavy stone
Bearing the name we never knew.