Mortality

[whitman]

Winter through the eyes of spring, summer through
autumn's eyes I would like to paint to warn me
of the faint swing of death' scythe-the debut
of his aura thrives amongst those ready to be
born in heaven's birthing pools. The ghost train
arrives in this rest home to pick up the
newly deceased,in my eyes in the panes
I see death painting me seasonally,
he shuffles the seasons from glass to glass,
he passes through a dream to breathe and blow
guiding flakes of snow through four seasons across
to the threshold of an artist's window.
Before my brushes forever dry I will find
my signature snow flake in winter's wind.