Death Cometh To All

The mere madness, the thought,
An athetoid fit wrought,
Of our passing from this cold world,
Leaving behind this legacy of ashes and bone charcoal.

Between the fjords and firths,
And every closed sea and forlorn girth,
Lies the lost tales of a man,
Fabled wars and seized lands,
Sum the existence of man's worth.

In every nook and every corner,
From every high mountain,
From every pristine fountain,
And, every edged forgotten border...

No matter how wealthy, poor, big, or small,
Death Cometh To All.

- John Hardesty