An ode to the in between

An ode to the in between of newborn breath and the bitter screen
Before the stone sky makes a friend unseen
And tears cascade for forgotten days
while strangers assemble with delayed praise.

Every goodbye a rehearsal for the one with no reversal
When grief’s oily slick resists dispersal
Our well-worn words have little left to say
Though we bolster them with stoic, even religious, clichés.

From the womb helpless, in the grave penniless—and the wandering years between hold us
In the merciless grip of marching time
Which leads by the hand toward that fateful chime.

Maybe the Teacher was right: that vapour deceives our sight, and grasping at shadows our plight
In these tiresome days under the passing sun
As strength fades and zeal is undone.