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,
Time,
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
Says………freedom!
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,
Until,
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.