In Passing

Anthony Hicks, Clerical Assistant

Eyes; that once burned with flames of life

sea grey, deeper than the oceans depths,

Are fading and clouding into coming night

dimming into twilight and their final rest.

 

Face; soft etched with youths fading grace

is now scarred over by Deaths cold hand,

Memories of you worn away like frayed lace

leaving only the jutting bones to stand.

 

Hands; hands that once moved my world

lie like the roots of old upended trees,

Stubby, grey and wrinkled with the cold

they persist while their life force flees.

 

Body; gutted and worn down, so thin

all crumpled up like old waste paper,

Stiff, gritty, blurred, hiding a dozen sins

waiting, waiting; for what comes later.

 

Breath, rattling and wheezing in gasps

matching the slow ticking of the clock,

But, the rhythm is slipping; till at last

in a final hissing gasp; it slows and stops…

 

And I try, I try; to hold that fleeing moment

as if by holding back his passing tide,

Deaths icy cold grip might yet be broken

and you would then awake and rise.

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