The Bleakness
A bleak poem about mortality, written during Lockdown, July 2020.
I am the origin of my own dust,
Which falls from me and fills the ambient air.
I make my peace with time because I must.
I’m blown about with every passing gust
And signs of me are scattered everywhere:
I am the origin of my own dust.
All that once shone is turning now to rust;
Endeavours are in vain — they lead nowhere.
I make my peace with time because I must.
Desire decays, and longings feed disgust.
My wrinkled body causes me to stare.
I am the origin of my own dust.
A sudden ending now would not be just —
But justice, now, is neither here nor there.
I make my peace with time because I must.
The hour has come, it seems, for quiet trust,
For facing up to what is bleak and bare.
I am the origin of my own dust.
I make my peace with death because I must.