The world sits and spins like a clay lump thrown,
pinched and pulled into a simple urn,
where the thoughts, hopes, dreams, and things we've known,
to gray ash rendered when our selves they burn.
To gray ash rendered, to heat, and bright light,
the sum of our days, our essence, our all,
as the first steps are taken into that good night,
to where we can't cry, from where he can't call.
Tears are to words what death is to life,
a breakdown, an end, the final straw drops,
leaving friends and family, child and wife,
how strange it must seem when everything stops.
How strange it will be for us who go on.
Moments in darkness, the moment at dawn.
© C.D Sinex
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