The Resting

THE RESTING Our death of soul steals slowly through the years the fog of mind that's never known to be; brought on by laughter, love, and hate and tears the fate of all no one can ever see. It brings the withering of life, and all its leaves, once green and shining in the morning sun, now setting on it all, in evening grieves for lack of interest in what life has done. Compassion leaves the mind, once fired and prime and old and tired now beats the heart we knew life now mundaned by passing of all time, there's little left the heart would like to do.      Old one, you're numbered to your final breath.       Your rest is not until it's done in death.