Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?

I am not sure how to find the right words for my feelings yet..

I am remembering all the joys of our days

and those opportunities I never took

How great you looked without you timeless hair

But without it the cold winds chilled your bones evermore

Your energy moved throughout the room

dancing with the rhythm of your footsteps

The troubles of your past are lightened with the strength of your freedom

It seems I have never been closer to you than now

but why then did you have to go away.

 I find myself with John Donne.

 His sonnets are not all about death 

though there is a comfort in my heart hearing his words. 

In Death be Not Proud death thinks in its pride that it has won.

Donne taunts death and in this way it looses its power in our imagination.

Donne confronts death and belittles it, in order to take away its sting.

I'd like to do that right about now.

Holy Sonnet X

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.