The distant tendrils of thought,
broken now, all thinking ceased,
Tenuous connection severed,
Memory the sole remaining entity.
All conversation ceases, silence
Pervading stillness clogs the mind,
Image fading on cheap newsprint,
Yellows with age, tatters and fades.
In a box, white and crystalline,
Calcined, ground and left behind.
A mere six pounds of ash and dust,
Not much to show for a life well lived.
A year ago he breathed and spoke,
Through age-numbed mind he pondered
Life's greatest mystery,
The end of time.
A year ago his breathing ceased,
Synapse no longer just a gap,
For impulse no longer triggered
Axion to send a signal.
Disconnected body lay,
no longer living, empty shell,
His death bed now an empty quay,
His spirit packed and gone away.
© 2000, Deacon Ed Faulk |
