From Life's desolation we cry in vain,
Never knowing what waits for us
In the future years, while waiting
Death's door to open in some Unexpected season.

People scurry on busy streets,
To avoid the reality of their mortality,
Saving the grave in prayers at church,
In Sunday's best dressed mornings.

Monday arrives forthwith
And they again forget Sunday's best,
While their prayers become thoughts,
Of the day's business.
And death is left on the church doorstep,
Until next week when they ask for a reprieve
From the mortal grave and death's
Formidable actuality.
 
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