Things Primordial

What a puppet thing is life when fading,
the pleading, articulate travail of existence,
from the apex, the cry of life plunging,
sounding out the depth
of his mortal being.

Blind with weakness most of the night,
in the grip of death, he raised
a chorus from hell.
His bewildered spirit, broken
by death’s savage strangeness,
flared up and fluttered faintly
then paled, dimmed and passed away.

Nothing moved, not even a quiver.
Motionless as a stone, he was flung
into the heart of things primordial,
leaving a void that ached like hunger
for his love in the land of the living.