Eulogy

I first met Faust when he was a mere child playing at his father's feet. Those days were the only carefree ones he would ever know, for as he grew, bitterness became such an integral part of him that it became hard to differentiate that side of him from the creative energy I knew sat at his heart.

Versed in language and philosophy he would sometimes call himself the Dark Poet, as if it were a title he had never wanted but had somehow earned. To me and to those around him, it appeared as if he had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the intelligence he had acquired. Even if he had, I'm sure he would have reasoned that it was merely another essential element in his quest for immortality through knowledge.

As a child he was quiet and shy but could often explode in rage as if possessed, not even able to recall or regret his fury later. As a youth he was alternately sociable and introverted, making strong friendships quickly that would be lost just as easily. Never obtuse, always charming, he was forever conscious of how he appeared to others, sometimes choosing to be kind and forgiving, other times unleashing hate and vengeance upon those that he felt had betrayed him. But to those that gained his trust, he was always truthful, especially regarding the darkness that he drew to himself.

But that darkness that had started as a mask began to consume him, transforming his life's purpose into a mad quest that he used as an excuse for self-destruction. Several times I watched helplessly as he cast his emotions through unstable people as if to cover the truth behind his unhappiness. Hopelessness became the new definition of his life as he slowly gave up everything that he had once considered meaningful.

And through all of this he wrote, perfecting his ability as a poet, as if his bleak vision of a future depended on those brief words composed on scraps of paper and tattered notebooks, carefully constructing new worlds as his own collapsed around him.

Even his words cannot save him now as he lies in his hospital cell, waiting to die, believing that he is unloved and alone. I write these words with hope that someone will care enough for this poor creature and find enough mercy to carry him away from the abyss that he has created. May God have mercy upon him. . .

John Salter