The Dying

The Dying



     There was a time,

Dawn brought promise

To a new day,

There was a time

When sleep would

Willingly bestow

The fresh face to see

The New Morning,

     In those days,

There was sunshine,

Rain, rainbows and seasons

Would appear on time -

Without prompt.

     A Spring was Spring

And a time of joy

With new hope,

Summer, was blessed

By freedoms,

Autumn; celebrated

As we skipped through

Leaves of amber,

Gold and brown,

Winter, a time to play

And hold in awe the year

Gone by,

     Now, we are saying goodbyes

All too often,

We’re celebrating not the

New birth,

But mourning the

Many we knew,



Is all we have left

(but even that – be

The reality of untruth

As we lie now to ourselves);

To ponder what

We all have done,

And there is no promise

On distant horizons

Of ever changing

What we all now are,

Whom we have all become

And the things we could

Have changed to make

Better this world.


      We’re at war,

War inside and out,

And all has become pointless –

Even upon a compass,

There is no bearing that



     We had something yesterday

But now it has gone,

We had something of ourselves

But now all is hidden,

And grieving;

Are the children whom

Have never lived –

As ‘we’ say we have,


     We realize the lies

Sold to place us within our box,

And that’s all that’s left;

A box,

     Be it cardboard for a pauper,

Gold for the rich,

The box is all that’s left

To receive deaths kiss,

     Many go there,

Unaware of how fruitless

Their life lived endeavours

Really be;

     For nothing changes,

Nothing holds up

To a peaceful conclusion,

No God shows their face -

There be no epitaph left

That says we lived together as one,

Just moss upon graves -

And by the time you’re there,

With all life’s inflictions,

You’re harder

Than the rock

With engraving that still

See’s light of day,

For hardier still,

Be the cadaver

That rots in his cask,

For all now be;

Stone - cold.


Michael J Waite 4th December 2013.

◄ TV People

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