He was the maker of darkest skin and cushioned lips that spoke with slight banter, attached to memory for playbacks. She was the almost youngest and the fragile sheet of the brood, with softest skin and the voice that fades into jugular of memories, fighting to unearth what might have been.

He was the former and the one to come, who saw through the layers of peeled occurrences with sharpness of flight. The hairy knuckles supplied balls of dough with messaging of cultural infiniteness that continues to present imagery of his ascension.

No tears can bring back the ones who leave with collective gasps at the departure with rude hastiness. No cries from the depths of unhealed channels will revive the physical embrace of yesterday when today bids farewell back to tomorrow.

Jesus wept and his sorrow awakened the mercy of holiness. When we weep the dead praise us for remembering.

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