A withering

Shriveled, exposed, cold,
Warps and wefts waste away
the body afflicted with decay
O! I say, the hey-ho way, of the live-long-day.
Whatever has lived
Will wither, languish, and decay.
Time pines us away
aghast in a quagmire of guilt, regret
spilt water, wine? I forget
which itch of memory did the damage.

No transubstantiation this,
no move into immortal bliss:
this work of resistance is an inception in art
of all the heart-wrung soul that is left in me.

A lamenting for the passing of the light?
Maybe, but, no, no, not quite…
more like a winter tree stripped,
bent, gnarled, entwined in the wicked winds of time.
a modulation of voice, a volte-face:
a variation in rhyme?

Surely, no man
has such bad intent as to awaken from sleep
those legions of demons that laugh as we weep?

Stripped down, dying back to the root,
We leave a shadow behind the sun.
We take such passing…