Walking down a trodden path,
leaves and mud stick to my boots.
My feet are cold and numb. My
fingers, too—numb and cold.
The golden morning lights my path,
its crepuscular rays splashing the floor.
A perfect day for one last walk
before I choose to go.
But now some god’s severed arm
stops me where I stand. Its spiraling
fingers reach up to the heavens while
clay still clumps in its webbing,
moss still clenches its skin.
Why did you fall? Over decades of decades,
you overcame tempests in legion,
prevailed over Zeus’ many mighty bursts,
even dragons’ kisses couldn’t catch.
But here you are, sprawled out
with your crown lying in the muck.
If you’re like me,
life’s punctilio
wore you out.
The menial routines,
the pointless parades,
the pretending.
Your roots decided to let go of your ground,
that which kept you tall and noble and strong.
As have mine.
So I’m in good company;
Nature’s grandest creations
give up on living, too.