In Passing

Taliesin Wordweaver

Someone is sinking down into silence.
It’s trivially true: there is never truce
between order and entropy. Always, someone,
by dusk or dawn, by day or night,
is leaving this life and breathing their last.
Death is the doom all life is due,
yet we feel such fear when eternity falls
like a hawk on the hunt to prey on the heart
of a name we knew, just a nodding acquaintance,
now gone from our gaze as we go about life
and our daily doings, our circle reduced
by one. We work, we sleep, we wake
in the morning with memories already misting.
Such is the cycle. C’est la vie.

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