Oh Death

Oh Death, grant me organic mirth Return to earth ‘neath lifeless moon Undo the tendrils that hold sway Allow embrace of Mother’s womb For I am now but skin and bone Freed from the angst of memory Sought naught the mitre or the throne Nor herald sounding history I welcome you, your scythe and hood That chill of life in fleeing gush The fresh hewn scent of coffin wood Cold winds that through the grey stones rush For I have lived and with each breath Came closer to this date with death John G. Lawless ©4/5/2023