Quietus

Oh death, where is your sting? – I Corinthians 15:55
And death I think is no parenthesis – E.E. Cummings 

..

We dress it in black. Night. Un
-known. We give it a scythe, a sickle,
the fickle heart of time. We deem it
grim, dig it
……………….(dirt nap)
graves,
laugh in its dark hooded
……………………….face.

We carve dates and dashes in mar
-bled stone, hoping they
might be more permanent
than our own
………..breath.

We speak to sky,
and ponder. Wonder after
after. Contemplate
the daily
(s)laughter

,
knowing all the while
that it is something (for) which
we can
not
………..(stop.)

 

..
Prompted by PAD, day 18.