The creep of 

slow death is here

living among us

as companion constant

but no friend.


All around us it is,

swirling in the sameness of distance,

and present in the chill of air and soul,

and the boil of restless day.

No voice it has but the wind 

and no body but the soil

barren and cracked with shame.


It is a thief that never gives back

but takes and ravishes all,

not by stealth but here now,

brazen and grinning

in front of our eyes.