A deathly stillness holds all life in thrall;
There s a sticky heat - a low black sky -
The converging elemental forces over all
Are gathering, mindless, up on high.
The lowering gloom brings little puffs of wind,
And the leaves all flutter upside down.
This ordered progress seems impelled by mind,
'Tis such a pattern in the ages sown.
The haphazard gusts grow longer, stronger,
Stray lightning flashes closer overhead;
Yet this marshalling lacks all thoughtful plan,
With action and reaction in its stead.
Then suddenly a strong wind blows,
The thunder crashes directly overhead,
The rain and hail lash down in all their fury,
And all our skies' sweet serenity seems dead.
0, the wind and storm, they travel on,
They are with us but a little while,
The air feels clean, out comes the sun,
And leaves hold shining drops that smile.
A thunderstorm's a little thing,
Though fierce and mighty in its sway,
But matter can the changes ring,
With heavy toll of life today.
A volcano spews its molten rock,
An earthquake kills - without one thought.
But what the plight of all on earth
When miles high mountains had their birth?
John W. Mahler
Death has a strange smell. It smacks of dust
and wind but mostly it makes no impression. It
rattles in a salesman's throat, and sends its
yellow colour for a shroud. It drips and seeps
through window panes and chokes the baby in
its crib. "Prosperity", it yells, and coughs in
pain, and offers blindness as a state of grace.
With panting gills, it throws its pickle bottles to
the crowd, and wonders at the paradox.
"Again, Again!" and yet again the red flags flew and panacea was in the air. The soul fell, and with it, all the ledgers of the past few years. Driven by a weekly wind, the dust moved on, and on. The paste-board reality groaned but stood, and morning clambered into waiting trains to start again. All along the tracks they realized, "It's ENTROPY!", and did not smaile but kept their faces in the news. The glass had paved the wilderness and cocktails shuddered into guts.
The clock upon the time-card clicks, and through the punch-card farm-yard people leave. "Home" and Death away from Death. The Undertaker frowns, but only feels the pulse before the lid comes down.
Spring, summer, autumn, winter and oblivion. Death still smells of dust and wind, and here and there a voice crys out, only to be lost again. Death is music without song, death is entropy. Death is life without an end, and Hell is realization.