Thanatos

In three month's time, the harvest goes.
The sun's aged gold heats the stone,
Radiating memory.

A canyon where I wheeled and soared
So long ago, in evening dreams,
Borne high aloft amidst the green,
With effortless ability.

Now comes great Death,
The sage.  He faces me
Beyond the blurred veil of my daily ease.
I see him on occasion, through the corner of my eye,
But walk past hurriedly.

Yet in the subterranean chambers, something rustles
Something restless.
Perhaps it will be stillborn in its shell.
Or perhaps it will rise up and destroy all:
The world, you, me, and our insipid hell.