Upon a breath a murmur;
 a still too still chest,
that fails to rise except
 to burst the lung in thoughts unrest.

A pair of eyes fold aside;
 upon the pillow rest,
and fail to see the light
 which darkens lips and pales zest.

Voices lie not far from ears
 that close the world
to recite the years;
 to hear the mind remember prayers.

This hand that swung the hammer,
 that threw the fist upon the air;
fails to rise to say goodbye
 and peaceful, waits to disappear.

This hand that swore to tell the truth
 so God would hold it true,
once upon His book so confident,
 now soaked a desperate blue.

This heart that ran a marathon
 for love and life and love,
 for love and life and things above,
this heart that begs for air.

This heart which swore itself to itself
 and held its virtue true;
that lived to the fullest
 up to this gloomy fortitude.

A back which once held the weight
 now weighs upon the bed;
a chest lays its weight upon it
 heavy as the dead.

A final murmur never breaks the cheek;
 a tongue unmoved
  a chest too still
   a man who knows defeat.

Those who stood beside
 leaking from their eyes
now wonder why and beg God
 not to take the life.

Never understanding what Might
 may lay beyond prayers and pain.
Bury the dead, they say,
 and take count of years remain.

02/23/2012

Author's Note: God will humble every man in the end.

Posted on 02/24/2012
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