A Sleepless Night's Ponderings

'Imperious Caesar,
dead and turn'd to clay,
might plug up a hole
and keep the wind away.'
 
Quoth the Danish Prince,
on Ophelia's wedding day,
the groomsbride pale and cold,
the bridesgroom a soiled spade.
 
The ephemeral is made sweet
by nature of it's fleeting grace,
the rose's wilting
lending desperate beauty to a scarlet face.
 
The sunrise is Good and Godly,
by right of it's sudden death,
and a picture only plucks from it's rosy throat
that rattling yellow breath.
 
Immortality is debasing.
It twists and torments.
So Times relentless pace,
Demand life be well spent.
 
There is beauty in knowing
that your tenure can't be stretched.
There is greatness in every grave,
From the beatic to the wretch.
 
So make that macabre music,
with your blackpowder flutes,
sing your hymns and dirges,
"Go, bid the soldiers shoot."