The Wake

Flesh, blood, bone; warm with smiles and grimaces Body, a mere corpse without thine senses Reality made through that which one perceives Purpose, created, through which he believes So fragile is the physical being That even this spirit cannot keep one fleeing Mortality, with dreams or ambition, Death, unsympathetic, no cognition One may never find escape through made plans Darkness creeps in, then grasps with frozen hands And then, is the end, of hope, light, and life Of love and desire, fear, as with strife But known of an end to all that is one, Brings beauty to each new breath, each new sun