Song of Death
By Tamara Williams
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Perhaps the trees are old enough to know this sphere of ending is not end but a transition in the cycle of life. We are never willing to acquaint ourselves with this void, this severing Yet it is a constant peculiar presence In our realm. The very seed dies in the earth before the tree thrusts through the surface Blossom, bloom. Beneath its roots lie the vessels of passing souls, once the conduit of energy alive A finale of voices holding power Silent. The beloved cling to memories, Not ready to bury their treasured presence But death takes without consent. Not even the loudest of wails can pry a soul from its grips When death comes it breathes a heaviness in the atmosphere Faint perfumes of sorrow embalms a quilt of distress A pain more rooted that the very trees living It is a shaking A silent scream A foreboding whisper Sometimes lending clues to its entrance And other times, smiting without warning. These days it seems to be lurking, not far from us Not cycling in phases. No rest from grief We clutch for understanding Struggle to tarry without pieces of humanity cling to memories dear Conjure remembrances of good times For even in the season of death we must not lay to rest the legacies of those who walked among us. The leaves are falling now Death sings We watch for when light brings an end to her song. |
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