A Final Chime

An execution date 

is a horrid mound 

of soil, 

coursing, 

pulsing, 

with termites. 

At least there will be a pulse that will 

continue 

after such an affront against God. 

Even our name, 

mortals,

rings itself,

its purpose,

From the decadence of death. 

Morte

Death blows within us, 

as a chime of impermanence,

a reminder of who we are.

Yet we cannot allow it to 

depart from us 

unto another. 

Each wave, 

each crevice, 

of our fingerprints, 

contains no trace of 

that contagion of contempt. 

That withering of fraternité, 

of sororité, 

of the bonds,

indestructible, 

of this human family, 

Fascists may say it necessary, 

The State may defend it 

in hollow glory,

but the destruction of one, 

unleashing that which blows within, 

metastasize a contagion worse 

than finality. 

I long for my friend, 

my brother, 

my sister, 

them all. 

A gust bellows through this 

vile chamber of hubris.  

My chime rings free

at last.

Michael Carney