April 20, 2018

• The End

  

   

  The first gray hair makes you grumble;

  Arthritic knees cause a stumble.

  You rant and you rave,

  But eventually waves

  Will even make lighthouses crumble.

   

  It comes for us all in the end,

  No matter the prayers that we send.

  There is no recusal,

  Resistance is futile;

  The Angel of Death does not bend.

   

  As existence begins to fade

  And the world turns to graphite shade,

  Regardless how strong

  You fight to prolong,

  The end you cannot evade.

   

  Nobody can escape the fate

  Of reaching their expire date;

  You will get there on time,

  But the joke is sublime –

  At your funeral you will be late.

   

  I hope the title of this poem didn't scare you off. I'm not about to stop writing, leave social media (although that is becoming increasingly tempting), or die (as far as I know). This was a difficult one to write. The NPM Scavenger Hunt prompt was #8. Use these words: resistance, funeral, lighthouse, graphite. Of course, with the word funeral in there, it's an automatic leap to death as a subject. I couldn't resist the absurdity of writing about death in limerick form.

  I've really enjoyed these challenges so far. I think I need somebody to tell me what to write about every day; I seem to be better about blogging when I'm given a challenge. But first, I have seven more poetry prompts to work through.

  • 12:03 pm
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