Death of the World

Like gnarled fingers from the grave

Reaching out to kill the brave

The twisted roots bend and curl.

Into the sleep from which one never wakes

EWach discolored leaf from the tree snakes

Covering the ground for tthe final rest.

Dead, decaying, dying,

The soul of each plant ever flying

As the reaper comes to collect his soul.

The bitter, mean wind bites,

And every ugly cloud fights

For its right to a  place in the pallid sky.

Every image in the morbid season

Gives way to depression above all reason

All connotations reek with rotten flesh.

Everything we see positively rings

With the remembrance there is an end to all things

And the end is never pretty.