Death’s Indignity

This Winter passes on without a snow,
yet is cold as a corpse drained of its hues,
all is either black or brown or sallow;
a fell tumescence festers in its views.
Snowfall no longer drapes this scabrous land
like the white sheet spread with grief and pity,
nor is a shroud laid by a loving hand—
all is laid bare in Death’s indignity.

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