Reconciliation with piety and pain of the very old at the mouth of a tunnel called death

564. In the Maw of Death

In the maw of death, sackcloth
And ashes abide, as death 
Circumscribes the living breath
Of humanity’s doleful clock;
Gone is that flicker of hope,
Gone is that dance of joy, as in
Carmen’s steps—a fandango
Dextrous and delivered to block
Death’s sly and dolorous spread;

The clock has ticked and it has tocked
In calibrations of measured time,
Its tedious march of mundane life
Through stages oft recalled
By bard and scribe—the fall of
Hair, the dentured bite, the wizened
Body and rancid breath;
The sackcloth and ashes of 
Penitence, in the maw of death.

(From The Unsung Log— © Ronnie Patel)

564. In The Maw Of Death

About Ronnie Patel
Ronnie Patel was born in Bombay, India and is a published poet. For the last several years as a retired man, he pursues writing poetry, abstract painting, transforming his own photographs into paintings on the computer, playing golf for exercise, and runs a bespoke, private art gallery. Married, he currently lives in Berlin.
