All flesh is grass
and all its goodness like the flower of the field
The grass withers, the flower wilts
and the word of our God stands forever
Indeed, the people are grass.
Death, mower, ripe reaps, Man grass in Fate's field,
no blade but to His wraith swipe ghost must yield.
Swiftly, surely, sharpened scythe shall pass,
unseen gleans tithe in time with Time's hour glass.
So little's garnered, strength that fond youth wields
soon sinks, who thinks winks ink earthquakeproof bields
finds loss in toss, soon tossed aside, morass
awaits sass lass, rank mocking rank, race, class.
Though each would sow
fresh seeds to show
true traces flow,
in ALL all know,
mere mortals pass
through phantom farce
but once alas
before cock's crow
rings thrice, with no
reprieve and so
away soon blow
breath's ribboned bow.
Mid worms below
life's strife's knife low
Trace, pace, race name's flame fame stow away.
pride ride aside's set, scythe whet, sinks below.
So, Mower, mow, sweep all who weep,
stow chattles, keepsakes take to keep,
(16 June 2013)