The Last Ever To Die

Somewhere,
I am sure,
There is a calmness within.
A quelled silence,
A stone’s stillness.
As a lighter touch
At the anvils’ beak.

So there is to be a finale.
A fourth fool taken,
To the most peaceful of places.
For we are all just assemblies in a field,
Which was once a forest,
Or under a sea, in the time warp.

Things are not quite what you dream.
Unless they are mere dramas,
In an insular wave of the brain.
Here is notional candy for delight.
It’s a killers opportunity.
It’s slow and unnoticeable.

The spade diggers grave,
Or the grave diggers spade?
Picture the scene,
All wrapped up
In a chocolatey coated shroud.
Life can be too much
Of a basin full at times.

Those of us
With empty pockets of luck.,
Who are Folks on the edge of jaggedness,
Hovering for all our worth
To make some gain, any gain.
When in reality,
We each are dependent on the other.

Some of us will survive,
Just about.
Others, whilst making it rich
Are in fact unable to escape.
Because ultimately we are all on a level playing field.
We all know what is our shared fate.

There may be fewer mourners for some,
This is a trueism in this life.
However there will be none,
None for the last one who dies.

©2019 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved

2 thoughts on “The Last Ever To Die

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