Eulogy

The King in the Coffer at the bottom of the sea

The condition of peace is questionable, where He rests for our memory, rests for all misfortune, the King of Kinds, his Kindness and his possession.

Compose then, all lengths of eulogy and powers of restraint at this, you who would laugh at your own misfortune as if at a piece of animated wood, for you know not if it be so. If it goes well for some things unknown to remain spoken, and not for some others, I do well to slough it off loudly, if I only knew He could hear it.

The status of peace is coveted. He is condemned our sake. The best we may approach the tragic paradox is to recount His feats: of sacrifice, or waffling over imperatives. These I can, with no question of relevance, consider abstractly over my use to him. True, but heart-wrenching to the dabbler is the composure of the adept, because He considered it.

Now in the giving forth of the needs, I redouble my efforts to seem unaffected. For the sorcery of Fury, it is engraved in gold upon the coffer he is suspended in: “For One Man Alone”, though I know of another. Myself, I contest that dreams end at death; that the world can not continue because of this, but one never knows these things, does he?

Any other condemned man would assure himself by my unique nature, but not this King of Kinds, for he is beyond the threshold of acceptance.