The End of Earth
The seasons turn in elemental turmoil
Across the heavens.
The wise trees nod.
Dry thunder roaring through dark clouds.
Between the flashings of the fire
A great God is borne
Last of the wanderers across that waste
Called Time.
Down in the dark twisting deep
The sun of night lies fast asleep.
The timeless moon, lost face of doom
Sits,
A white Lily in an empty room.
The art of living is dead
The act of dying has fled.
We the machines.
We the dead decaying trees.
We the screaming earth.
We the tired sky moaning.
©2014 Jim Carroll
(1966)
