At the finish line

Death, a cold ice that freezes our bloom 
A known silence that constantly looms
It’s our final reward after the race;
From where it comes, no one can trace
But patiently at the finish line, it awaits 
Ready to make a feast of our earthly remains.

So what manner of humans should we be?
Ones with a heart enough to feel
the sufferings of the world and the desecration of it.
Not the kind on people’s faces we hesitate not to spit.
For one day when we rest our hands on our chest
we will concede to our mortality as we lay hushed in a wooden chest.