So He Dies

Some of us are born like saints

Fair

Perfectly filled with favour, longevity
and crystal teeth:

Some of us are born to taste
the decades of flavours
in the winds wild breath

And to die when we please.

Some of us aren’t

Some of us just lay like the past
until we stay perpetually motionless
with ash in our blood,
filled with violins
made of bones and harps
plucked by the earths ailing fingers.

Songs that lament in a brutal indignation
whilst the rain drums against the coffin,
young and dead
is the body
young and dead is the wood
devoted to a bed of elastic soil
and poison
that hacked the step from the stride.

Some of us are just here for the last act
sifting through the pale glory
indigent and blind.

Then you my friend
who I have always known
with such life

closed your eyes

so unwillingly.