Mortality

 Mortality 

The wheel of mortality swiftly turns,

My days like melting snow, it churns,

Scattered by the winter's fiery burns.

Covered by discarded leaves and ferns 

My life's a river, in a ceaseless flow,

Longing for the time to fly, to go,

The pages of time, they scatter and flow 

Melt, extinguish, like a candle's gentle glow.

Hope sparks, a distant star's embrace,

Fades with the morning's rising grace,

In whispers of despair, I trace,

Carried by the winds in their endless chase.

My poems, aging ink, with time they wane,

On weathered paper, they endure the strain,

Time devours them, their essence's bane,

The paper's emptiness, a lingering pain.

My candle in the night, it dims and wanes,

As if it's smoke in the night's dark lanes,

Ink evaporates from my pages' plains,

Lit once again by the imprisoning chains.

My heart cries out from its captive shell,

Injured, offered as a sacrifice, I dwell,

When it grows in the thirsty earth's swell,

Anemones bloom, a whispered poem's spell.

I return to you, an unwritten verse,

No ink, no paper, in my hand, no curse,

Though my heart's writing may rehearse,

It has burned as part of this universe.

I remain in the memory of time's strand,

A thread woven in the swing of life's demand,

And when the world drowns in blood's command,

You return to your ancient pages, where my poem will stand.

With scribbles from your very hand,

Like an elegy in a fading news article's band,

Its title now dim, but still, you understand,

Time has passed, and you remember the name,

Perhaps when I was buried, forgotten, unknown to fame  

Maxwell O’REILLY