Incoming

From out the dark of blackest night,
The lonely shadows call.
The moonless, starless, cloudless plight,
That waits and welcomes all.

And showing not the biased hand
Of finger-pointing hate,
It writes my name upon the sand
And bids, curse not but fate.

What useless use of time ‘tis though,
To lay in beaded fear
And mark each fading hammer blow,
That draws the Reaper here.

Oh for brave youth, with sturdy shield,
Who scoffed this ancient foe.
But this was not his battlefield,
Or enemy to know.

Chris Birrane © 2012