Vigil
As moonbeams settle softly on her face,
lay bare the gaunt and haggard visage there,
a woman whose whole life was spent in care
for those who ran and won another race.
Those stippled hands, the measure of her grace,
her shriveled arms, now wasting in despair,
her saddened eyes so sorrowful and spare,
a broken soul who cannot keep apace.
Wilting now, her slender body gone,
wishing there were something left to say,
countenance once sparkling, now wan,
as she prepares to make that final trip
to glory, to the everlasting day
when words no longer whisper from her lips.
Those who stand in grief can only wait
and ponder just what might have been,
but death is drawing nigh, it's much too late,
her appearance now so sallow and so lean.
Thoughts turn to their own brief mortalities,
as they reflect on how they will atone,
and justify their improprieties.
We cannot cheat the Reaper,
and live a life of immortality,
His grip is irresistible, and none
can bypass destiny, its fickle charms,
so may she sleep in peace, in purity,
and rest forever in His loving arms.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2016
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