Ensorcelled on the mortal heart,
Each beat, each breath, one less we’ll make.
So much afeared, so deep we dread—
Of course we pray our soul to take.
Despair, some deign, but ne’er forget:
The fact of Death defines all Life!
Begot, senesce; thy torch then pass.
Blood, bone, and wealth left others’ strife.
That’s not to say “dare not ye fear.”
(Such is a feature of our code.)
Let each part with our gift of life:
Returned, regifted, sans forebode.
But not today.
No, not today.
WILDsound Writing Festival 