Death Awaits

Time makes losers of us all

for it always carries death

on its heavy, shrouded shoulders

and life becomes a series of deaths

each of which corrodes us just a bit

and though there are rebirths;

the buds and blossoms of spring,

the multitudes of colors,

the variety beneath daylight’s shelter,

the waiting arms of death are always there

somewhere in the shady distance,

hidden in the shadows

where mysterious objects block the light,

waiting to bring the finality

that erases all of our springs.