A dour crowd has gathered
Around my homes hearth
Where once there was energy
and
exuberance
And youth
abound
Now they are as
four witches
In Macbethan gown
Death has touched
Some
And he has left ah
stench
The others
Squirm from the scent
It is like a dim torch
Being passed
A sorrowful story from this one
Another a divorce begun
Each trying to top the next
By God
Age is the poison
In their fruitful wine
Age the soul eater
A darkness
Devine