Death At Work, No Doubt (POEM)


Maybe it is his time now to rest as well,
Maybe it is time, he quit the trickery and for once got fooled,
Maybe he has won races but never rest,
Maybe now is his time to rest.
Aged.

For darkness soft, as with a texture of clouds, is swallowing radiance off around him
His lamp which shone with a provoking flame, is but steadily losing its glow,
The heart that pumped life into his flesh all these years, now is skipping its beats,
His chest cannot, it seems, take the heaviness of his breath any more,
His soul hurts at the sound of his chattering old bones, it whimpers and groans at every movement within his flesh,
His hands have grown frail, his sight very deeply failing,
His voice, which once was deep and melodious, is now cracking and breaking almost inaudible,
He who once walked with hope, has it no more,
It's as though within him lies no more strength to oppose death's pooling hooks,
As though it isn't him who often ago fooled time and crooked death to naught.

Our old man is indeed now old and dying,
It is surely his turn to travel beyond,
His life is ripe, it seems, to be plucked now,
He has seen many moons get born and die,
He has watched many a time the Sun germinate and then wither away,
And now, he is to see them never.
Him who once glowed with abundant beams is without rays today,
Him who once knew life, must today embrace its end,
Him who once won all his battles, today must stomach this loss,
Him who kept us warm, as beautiful dreams in the lonely night do,
Has today to rest,
Has today to be put to rest,
Dead.

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