Backward Mutters

A poem about being left and leaving.

You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

They all leave. Every single, last thing, leaves 
And goes away til there is nothing left;
All are consigned to one life and then, death.

All of us, all of them, from the first cry,
Are counting down till their last, labored breath
When they shall stop breathing and die.

And every leaving leaves me feeling left—
Leaves me burning with the sting of death
Empties my hands, leaves me bereft.

And to whom shall I leave what I have left—
The things for which I have paid for in sweat?
Who shall take it after my own death?

They all go; it all goes over time;
Whether they leave in trickles or at once
Leaving won’t stop till it has the last dime.

And here Truth shines for me to see
The fleetingness of my mortality:
That day by day the one leaving is me.

© Randall Edwards 2021