what ephemera this flesh of ours all that breathes will one day cease and hold its final breath forever, even the graveyard crows seemingly victorious in their coarse laments will fall at last as forgotten shadows of Autumn evenings do from the yew trees
at ten, I think is when, I think death came. He had, of course announced himself upon the grey tipped rain (..sudden on the window pane) but strangely that was all no black foreboding pall (..or bugle’s dampened call) just quiet pregnant quiet silence, save the grey tipped rain (..sudden on the window pane) which replaced her breath now lost, to never, ever sound again.
what strange shapes the golden fire makes upon the far horizon no shadows more scar the hastened draw of my day now done, for this is the dusk as endings must descend upon us all what once was light submits to the night that on a life must fall.
the last midnight is coming and we must heed its dark demands for even time cannot escape the cold strike of the minute hand each heart holds time to this lament the last midnight is drawing near thus soon the pendulum is spent but should its final swing be feared?
the last midnight must come to me beyond lies but eternity.