DOOM'S DOOR

And on dooms door 

three knocks are heard and more,

as the beaten drum the heart, the stride, 

the flung down glove of fate,

decides the pace, the rate of sinking, melt, 

the cries of crickets, cicada's rhythm dance

their feet serrated, mating, grating, grinding down

its fissures gaping gasping yawns of jaws

with out applause,

the music relentless bludgeons on, 

reverberates through oceans floors 

with sonar-sounds like whales for miles

around the globe of our round whole, 

and strikes it in two, in three or four,

until there is no sign of it, no form, 

analogous with air 

its dissipating awareness flawed, 

invisible currents, tangled weeds, 

draw deeper, fathoms beneath the common

face of place, 

the frown of death and its menacing grimace,

looms in the murky grime, clouded polluted brine, 

no longer clear and bright but tarnished, 

bleached, and boney 

stolen pigments, figments of the mind

grind and grind into the sediment

lulled by the beat of wave and stone and shell,

created music, Nell, the devil-laced booty

rots with centuries of swaying evidence 

of past deeds, slowly disintegrates, 

while weeping wails smooth out, 

they leave no trace 

of what this life was all about.