“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.