Call upon the empty tomb.
Ask for death by name.
Poison, cyanide, hanging by harsh coiled rope.

The generosity of life itself may now escape you,
This I can promise is true, however should you beg to carry on
I warn you.

Death, for all its rewards, will give nothing.
You may reap the joys of your losses,
Loss of pain, of hurt, of stress, of ridicule.

But there will be a great loss
Of soft touches, of warm regards, of praise, of breath.
Surely cruel words are bruising and brute force is will breaking,
But there are summer rainstorms that long to wash away your tears.