Decay

Slow at first, hardly seen,
the creep and chew of
decay; inexorable break
down, entropic destiny,

from which there is no
escape, whether soul,
self, frail body, or some
abandoned timber, lying

forlorn at the uncaring
feet of weather, where
time toys with edges,
plays with substance,

demands change and
disarray, as if order
were some offence,
and rotting life's true

path, where what was
is slowly brought down,
transformed into other,
yet strangely familiar,

with its crusted kiss,
pouting patiently until
there is no choice but
to surrender.