I lost my eulogy,
I suppose it was for the best.
For, it wasn’t composed beautifully,
If anything it was a mess.
And my life’s purity-
It was torn with that polka dotted black dress.
That premature, maturity
With Deaths sweet caress.
And its surreal obscurity,
It’s not glamorous; I must confess.
Published in the 122nd edition of The Mitre, Canada’s oldest student Literary Journal.