Finality

Winter woes in morning shine,
The fog of a misty blanket;
Covers the landscape
Like an uninvited vise,
That reminds of death
Amidst the cold icy fingers of
Finality

Nature who is the mother;
Once the serenade of warmth
And reason
Has abandoned the maternal touch
For a grip more persistent,
So that we may all take heed the knell of
Finality

Tis the nature of the beast.
When the warm calling goes unnoticed
It transforms in the indifference;
To a tone that cannot be overlooked.
A mother’s wrath awakened;
In the chilling reality of
Finality.

The mother that once soothed and cared
Raises her tranquil veil,
To reveal the withered breast
And the battered heart that lies beneath.
The unsteady pulse of the heart beat
Tired and wavering to that last shaken throb of
Finality.

Is it too late mother?
Or has the last feather been cast off?
The camel in its might has relented
And Atlas grows old under his wretched load
Can there be hope for redemption?
Or has the gong been set for its last sob of
Finality?

Neither a cry nor a moan belated
Seems to soothe the pained mother;
Gone cold in a reluctant revenge of her neglect.
Alas, the mother that once coddled and cajoled
Is of the temperance of wit’s end and
Finality.

But a mother a mother be
And cannot look beyond the dreams
Of her children nor leave them
Whence they plead for a second chance.
But the battered spirit is weak
And tired limbs ache to let go to
Finality

Perhaps already too late
Is where we stand in the equation;
A silent protest is all we can offer
Since a weakened mother may not revive
In her spirit of yester-bygones, but
Only ready to greet the peaceful resignation of
Finality

The rhythmic pulse of regret,
Reconciliation and reluctant realization
To the frailty of our circumstance
We are not too late!
We are too late?
Perhaps only just not too late for
Finality.

- 13 February 2010