Death

• Richard Dear, Grade 12
• Poetry
• 2007

As clockwork ticking smoothly through the day,
Made perfect by a craftsman’s knowing touch,
Ne’er wound too tight, not left to flow away
Like sand: to me this seems the way that such
A thing as man was made. A perfect work,
Our bones, for strength and balance, hold the mind
Encaged among them. Yet our thoughts now lurk
Between those bars, to lofty heights, entwined
Though they may be. And, free from flesh, with grace
Our thoughts may fly to ecstasy. But hold.
Are not these bones already stuck in place,
As if prepared for what Fate will unfold?

While body rots and, rigid, meets its end,
Must mind face death? Or will it ne'er descend?