Mercy After

 
Death is a woman.
She cuts from the cloth of time
the shroud of kings and waits
counting each grain, each day
until
the last one falls.


Hourglass curves flow,
a granular avalanche.
Whose eyes watch them?


While steel blades swing
and ropes bind and pull,
men roar, the blood pours —
the life sparks are dulled
to sand.
The last grain falls.


Soft tumbles
into triple weaves.
Whose hands wove them?