“In the midst of life we are in death.”
The angels wonder why
mankind hangs on to pointless breath
refusing just to die.
Three score and ten, is but hors d’oeuvre
we take another bite.
Spare parts fitted with such verve
fend off that final night.
The reaper stamps a tapered toe
his whetstone rasps an oath.
Sickly, and senile, came when due!
Now, he waits for both.
And Mother Nature ponders all:
where did it all go wrong?
The air is heavy with a Fall
The Age is almost done.
She’ll wait out Armageddon’s cull
with seed, deep in the earth.
And in time’s fullness, joyfully
to latent life, give birth.