Wilt

From its dismal, abysmal void springs a vast sorrow.

In the dark corners of our consciousness it haunts us.

In our greatest conquest its prospect daunts us.

It is death - an integral part of evolutionary mechanics.

It’s the primordial septic phantom that attacks us.

Our cradle rocks over an ancient abyss.

Between two eternities of darkness you and I exist.

We are fugitives from oblivion racing towards a futurity of obscurity.

We labor to escape the incubus below that awaits us and pray for a savior as we wilt.

We wilt like the ages of our ilk that have vanished.

We wilt and become ash and silt in the chasm.

We wilt like peddles as the icy winter blooms and retire to the silence that guards the tomb.

Down the road a doleful knoll tolls and tells a tale of a prehistoric force to which we ultimately hail.

There’s no Holy Grail to remedy the ruin.

I’m an organism plagued by a portent of dissolution.

If you do not seek death, death will seek you.

And in your most powerful hour its shadow may besiege you.

Try to disprove death and I suppose that death will disprove you.

And from the world of awareness it will remove you.

In your architecture its tendrils have bestrewn you.

The dignitaries of the cloth have only fooled you.

And we mourn for those who are now bone and clay, quite aware that we are wasting away as we wilt.

No rectitude protects against decrepitude and ineptitude.

Infirmity’s a master that we all surrender to.

And in the face of approaching deactivation some choose to lead a life of laziness and dissipation.

Others are possessed by a sense of urgency and emergency and polish their microscopic window of eternity.

Some rant and rave.

Some chant and pray.

We are all trying to make sense of our decay as we wilt.