The Coming Dark
A poem about death
~after Robert Frost
The darkest evening of the year
comes like a whisper to your ear,
it says all men must face their end
alone, the truest form of fear.
The dark and deep shadows bend
around each second time may lend,
though the seasons come and go,
don’t get comfortable, my friend.
All roads are lit by ghostly glow
of moon or star through canopy boughs,
a forest walked with infinite paths,
to a house whose owner no one knows.
His answer to every question asked:
Nothing is promised, nothing will last
longer than breath on panes of glass,
longer than breath on panes of glass.