We say the hour of death cannot be forecast;
However,
In saying this, we assume it's in some distant place.
Unfix'd from its position,
Unlike the beautiful summer afternoon;
Which has its hours filled and plotted in advance.
We assume it is lost;
Not meaning to be found,
Residing in its taciturn future;
Never meant to be uncover'd.
We never see how it's connected to the winter's morn;
The morning which is so certain and known,
So easy to predict with the rising of the sanguine sun.
Death could come this morning,
Or the next.
Palliating the afternoon of its rigid place;
Alleviating the load of its pre planned hours
That were in apparent plenty.
It displaces what we thought we knew,
From its place in our minds.
As Father Smith writes the words of a sermon;
One that nobody will hear,
Out of the shadows,
Death draws near.
YOU ARE READING
Every Trick In The Book
PoetryThis anthology of mostly narrative poems mostly revolves around real people's stories. People's real stories of war and peace, of love and heartbreak, of alcoholism and loss; they have been immortalized in this anthology.
