Passing

A short-poem written the day before my grandmother passed.

As were the days of old, a man is not made by right, but rather, through the passing of light.

A sad and brittle heart of gold, allow this vision from my sight, pray to strength and hold my might.

The crucible cast, how long can a pain feign to last?

The dice have been thrown, but what dignity is mine to own?

Faith flutters, the hallowed hall clutters.

A soul is to pass, please lord, forgive my crass.

I know not the ways of life, thus adorned am I by strife.

Words cast, a ballet void; subtle pacts, but forever destroyed.

A lack of control and none to parole.

And so I fear myself; I fear the wrath of potential unobliged.

And as I gallop upon the steed of night, cloaked in silence and adorned in unseen might,

the walls of time will fall as the winds will howl of a foreign call,

"Forget it all," the unseen watchers will scrawl, "empty your ears if only to learn of other fears,"

But the soul is just, and does as it must,

for to live is to die, and to wake is to sleep,

and for how many years is life mine to keep?