A Deafening Sense of Mortality


It comes along, a certain song

A deafening sense of mortality



For a moment

Cold outside and in

(No, not as in sin)


But so wryly aware

Of thinning of hair

Let alone what’s fair

Or fraying or threadbare


Flooding is a good word

As ocean waves pass clean

Through Hawaiian flecked trunks

Like a graying freight train

So runs this sensation


Not a stage but a passage

Below furrowing of brow

Then perhaps to know how

Only now comes clear the message


In measured voice of quiet certitude

Calmly spoken and assured

There’s nothing to be feared

Once shorn of all the platitudes


It leaves All alone, this knowing tone

This deafening sense of mortality



Copyright r.b.franklin 09/12/09



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