There were days I could not crawl,
Days I could not see at all.
Fog lit the windows and the dusk,
My poor soul had turned to rust
I lay in bed in memory’s eye
Waiting for my turn to die.
They praised our efforts in our prime,
Saw us lost in space and time.
There are no more words to say
Now fragile rays have shone away.
It makes no sense to wave goodbye:
They saw us just as passersby.
I lost track of my lonesome shade,
And the ghost of life I’d made.
I used to know what was mine
Then I’d taste the poison wine.
I think back on the day I died;
The way no children cried.
Ashes without holy ground,
Flesh and bones now raining down.
Nothing greets me at the pier
No mourners to gather here.
My days are left behind
Nothing left for me to find.
With every dawn that came and went,
And with the sun’s descent,
I thought of death as something new
Like it would not capture you.
I said, “Whereto are we going now?
I pray teach me, show me how
To be dead as you have died.”
But only wind replied.
© 2020 Marten Hoyle