Onward they trudge.
Tall and gaunt to the point of starvation, they trudge.
Ever onward they trudge
through the narrow Ice Caverns of Karst.
Onward to the Silent Monastery at the end of time.
Although I typically write traditional poetry that rhymes, I occasionally write free verse when the Muse moves me. For example, They Trudge actually came to me in a dream in which I was wondering who the figures were and where they were going.
I hate last times. I loathe them… and fear them.
The very concept fills me with dread and foreboding.
The words speak of such inevitable, unavoidable finality.
Last walk in the woods. Last walk along the sea shore. Last walk. Last step.
Last meal with friends and family. Last meal. Last bite and last drink.
Last time making love. Last warm embrace. Last kiss.
Last time I say and hear the words “I love you.”
Last sunny day and last rainy night. Last thunderstorm. Last sunrise and sunset.
Last day. Last hour. Last minute. Last second.
Oh yes, I hate last times and my ever approaching death.
I cannot avoid last times. Even when I don’t recognize them, they come and go.
There will be no appeal. No last minute pardon.
No commutation, for the sentence must be carried out.
Last breath. Last heartbeat. Last sight. Last sound. Last…