Upon The Pyre Poem by Barry Middleton

This life is but a gift that must betray;
a Trojan horse conceals the enemy.
And all the ecstasy will soon decay;
then we are left without a remedy.

This life is like a play, the curtain falls.
The dagger plunges in the final act
as Brutus gestures to the senate halls,
for even kings succumb to the attack.

This life is nothing but a fading rose.
The crimson blood and petals one by one
recede to burgundy and black repose,
when seasons of the sun are finally done.

This life shall mock our everyman's desire,
the gift, the play, the rose upon the pyre.