The Fool Trudges On

The mortal seed, so invigorated and new,

blossoms death within an hour or two

The brightest candle its wick burns out.

A whisper ends the loudest shout.

The boldest life wears out its part.

Time intervenes and stabs its heart.

The scoffer of preparation will, on the morrow,

weep and mourn in pain and sorrow

For what is not eternal is chaff in the fire,

where hopeless ends prove bravado a liar.

Caught now finally in Grim’s cold stare,

careless fairies begin to care

About a soul for which they gave little thought,

and a life lived that was all for naught.

Cold is the strangle of death’s strong grip.

Heavy the anchor of damnation’s ship.

Lost is the voice never again to be found,

Gone in the darkness without a sound.

As greedy as the grave, as insatiable as hell,

time eternal exile can never dispel.

The Wise, in warning, call

out to one and out to all,

“Sowing night reaps futility at dawn!”

But the fool trudges on.