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Blood, sweat and dust mixes upon my head
Now at the demonic place of the skull
Soiled and tattered robe swiftly made to shed
Knocked to the hardened ground, there is a lull
The rope around my wrist and tree is tight
Is readying me for what is to pass
Point joggled and pressed between bones till right
With swift arc, action sounds like broken glass
Adrenaline rush due to the unknown
Then my scream from excruciating pain
For every heart beat comes a wincing groan
As my precious blood falls upon the plain
Father in Heaven Your will, will be done
Three days now I wait for the morning sun
Sovekammer, Vilhelm Hammershøi (1890)
The Empty Chair, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Why is there an empty chair by the bed?
Is there more than what’s already been said,
Of some awful thought which most surely dread,
The fact that someone is really dead.
Does not matter big or small, short or tall,
But sooner or later we all must fall.
Each will wear once the paltry saintly pall,
While the lofty choir sings a pastoral.
None should be eager for that final day,
But live life in the best possible way.
Dividing your time between love and play,
Yet never praying forever to stay.
Best that we can ask if our lives are good,
Lives are temporary is understood.
Winter Scene with a Stream, Carl Frederik Aagaard (n.d.)
Allegory of a Tree, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Is this to be the year of my demise?
If to be asked would have it otherwise.
Gravity pulls hard but yet to capsize.
Not ready to say my final goodbyes.
Was not so long ago stood straight and tall.
Decades of buffeting, withstood it all.
Even angry attacks by vicious maul.
Through it all encountered refused to fall.
Who will be the judge to decide my fate?
Be aware that yet to be deadweight.
Coming of spring leaves I will generate.
Think it best if we just sit still and wait.
To make a judgement by a single view,
It does not really speak well of you.