the listless ones gaze through

the downward surge of memory

in a postponement of death made decent

by caring.

 

hands are pressed like autumn leaves

into the never never book that

will be offered up with a soft cry

why all this, why?

 

in a bedroom a once favourite picture hangs

sheets are turned down

and while there is life

 

still life

lights will dim

day become night become day

and finally become everlasting night

 

as God the thoughtless bastard

awaits in his many mansions.