We can all see it coming,
though our eyes are turned away,
the reaper hangs on the horizon
like a spirit above the grave.
Time a long march for the weary,
we jump at breaking news,
the constant demise of idols
and loved ones cutting through
our heartwork with sharp scythe,
a reminder that life is just for show,
that time is the great destroyer
of what we think we know.
We should not wait, my love,
for this is the Year of Death;
your face haunts me, draping
the days in a sheen of regret
for what you cannot tell me
and what I cannot forget.
Published in Collected Poems, 2016
©2016, Dan Schell, Flex Your Head Books