From first call to final rights
The door badge a colorful arrangement
Announcing only loss
We lose the plot
We march in procession to the grave
Our uneneding disposition
We only wake for the deceased
The mourners
The bereaved
All that remains
And how does it register?
When we speak the language of death

A comfort settles deep inside, with the sound of thunder.

It was those days amidst the teenage angst, that were taken for granted.
Where worries and the plight of humanity, were not quite apparent.
A freedom that carried naivety and innocence; fading as time passed by.
In the present, I briefly relive these moments, holding on to them with reverence.

And  when  his  usefulness  had  gone.
They  just  cast  him  aside.
And  on  the  final  downhill.
He  began  to  slide.

Rejected  after  all  his  work.
Visions  now  all  gone.
He  knew  full  well  his  time  was  near.
He  knew  he  had  not  long.

As  an  old  man  disillusioned.
And  weary  from  his  fight.
He  spent  in  sad  remembrance.
His  final  lonely  night.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

There is peace at the end
but no joy
the abyss is only
silence

and a taut string
connecting us
to eternity.