the clock runs its course.  and we, bound by its 
relentless pursuit of precision to measure all things but God, 
have no choice but to follow.  it is simple to resent less 
perfect measures of a man.  simpler still in paths we have trod 
to seek to match the clock's impartiality in judging friend 
and foe alike.  but not simpler to succeed.  for we are mortal.
blessed and cursed alike in our concerns and emotions, bend 
us just a little in the wind and judgement fails, in total.

and, as the clock runs, so must we.  ever mindful of the pain 
of being creatures ephemeral.  begging.  fighting.  bargaining 
for that extra second. minute.  hour.  day or year in vain, 
as life is not the reason that we live. we are gaining 
little in ourselves save the chance to serve if we continue 
in this test of our mettle we call survival.  God declines 
to judge longevity a sign of the worthy heart.  this venue
is rated by performance within our roles, not number of lines.

my friend is, to my senses, no more.  within my 
memory and, I pray, God's care...he yet endures.  
a good person.  one who sought life and love and peace 
and hope and joy with a vigor I cannot match. 
a catalyst, he changed one and, as easily, 
many, by his spirit and heart.  I know
no purer epitaph than this, that I never knew the need 
or desire to deny he was my friend.  the clock's blow 
has at last felled the tree but left in all of us its seed.

his test is finished.  done is the measuring, by law of time, 
against the cares of the flesh.  we cry, not in empathy 
(for his pain is ended), but in loneliness at our loss. 
crime it is, but only in the eyes of the witnesses. 
I am angry.  and sad.  and resigned and glad to see, 
in the end, his victory in this most essential race. 
my friend, take the rest you have earned 
and know we shall cherish all you have left us. 
may the dreams you brought us never perish.


copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv)