by Derek Alan Wilkinson
The athelete glistens in the glow of the crowd.
The losers whimper away, heads hung in the gallows.
But years elapse, and his thickening bones will ache,
and he will know that they are coming.
Her beauty emanates its floral radiance.
Perfect skin, shape, and form.
But the sun cracks wrinkles into her ripening flesh,
and she too knows that they are coming.
A nations flag flutters in the gentlest breeze.
Proud and true, her troops stand strong.
But in the heat of plague, fear, and war,
kings will know that they are coming.
An apple glistens in the delight of spring;
its skin is strong, its flesh is wet.
But the worm crawls along a shaking twig,
and the bark will warn that they are coming.
With maggots, plagues, worms, and age,
all the losers crawl from below the murky surface.
With maturity, war, wear, time, and digress,
they know their place from beneath the pale, earthen death.
And we all know that they are coming.