on mortality.

.

.

.

.

.

The final act, a murmur of that one last truth,

no gentle moulting of the flesh, no kind exhalation of breath.

.

.

No – a raspy sigh of the ravages of the years,

useless now are any shedding of tears.

.

.

The final act, a whisper of that one last farewell,

hearing no longer the tolling of the bell,

pockmarked,
carried on the eternal wind,

for amidst the agonising decay, the odour will stay,

today,
tomorrow,

the stench of that final act,

played out long ago,

in that hollow yesterday.

.

.

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