Pessimistic Poem.

A lone wolf stalked across the rocky outcropping.
She stopped at the edge
of the precipice and howled
at the moon.
Far below her, in a cave on the
bottom of the cliff face, a young boy shudders.
Winter wind bites at his toes,
as it groans in the night air. A grey pallor
overtakes the
face of a friend,
and the stench of death
descends upon the camp. An air of fear
coats the cave, turning the
air to butter and time to molasses
as the second’s inch by.
Soon the flies gather, and maggots writhe
on the hard stone. A
red fox steps
into the cavern, eyes like gemstones.
But a cold wind
has been gathering outside,
and now it rushes in, and the fox darts out.
The wind collides with smoke,
rising embers from the fire. The smoke,
caught in a vortex shapes itself into a death mask.
A leering skull
juts out of the smoke, writhing
on a thin neck. The
smoky apparition descends on the dead man,
and blood drenches the floor,
as death feeds. '
Carrion spatters the ground,
and a young woman screams.
Death has come for his payment.
This man has been
freed from his debt, the debt that all men must pay.
Nothing is immortal; all is ephemeral,
hold tight to time, as it slips from your
fingers like sand. Lost chances,
deadened loves,
still-warm pains,
all drifting down to rest, forgotten, l
ike dust on a top shelf.
Possessions
are an illusion, we own nothing,
nothing is ours, and we are merely borrowers.
Home is a false word,
it is like dust on the wind as we,
with all of our bravado, stumble along to our end,
aware that each step
we take is lethal, yet no one cares,
for life is so much easier. Memory
is untrustworthy,
for our minds are
reflections of ourselves,
and are we not liars?