Poetry

What final verse, which season’s breeze,
will billow death and come for me?
 
Will I slip away cold ashen lips,
or slowly fade with each shallowed breath?
 
Will my faith endure when the clock is struck,
in the Book of Life is my soul in-trust?
 
Will I ever wake from night’s burrowed sleep,
and soar with angels through Heaven’s gate? 
 
Born of love – Die in pain,
what mournful words will attempt to say?
 
When granite’s cut-in stony deep,
who’ll stand and wait, to remember me?