I hear death
In the distance
And see the pallid pallor
Of another bloodletting.

How many times must
We pass away into dirt,
Into dust,
Receding into forgetful
Memories.

A farthing is not enough,
The toll is too high to pay,
The ferryman takes the
Highest bidder,
And so many people
Cross the river.

All great dyings
Start in silence
And in patience..

Just as we
Burn the fallow field
And grow a new crop
In the ashes.

Death makes way
For the new,
Yet life,
Clings to the denial
of its wake.

The
Living would rather ignore
The consumption of
Passing aways
Into nothing.

And our words recede into
A
Hushed quiet.

Snuffed out,
By the song of someone
Else.