Grass Roots' Glass Parody Witter Bynner Spectra Current Version

All flesh is grass
and all its goodness like the flower of the field
The grass withers, the flower wilts
and the word of our God stands forever
Indeed, the people are grass.
Isaiah 40

Death ripe reaps, mower, Man, grass in life's fields,
no blade but to His blade wraith ghost soon yields.
Swiftly, surely, sharpened scythe shall pass
To gather tithe in time with Time's hour glass.
So little's garnered, strength that fond youth wields
soon sinks, who thinks winks ink earthquakeproof bields
finds loss in toss, soon tossed aside, morass
awaits sass lass, rank mocking rank, race, class.

Though each would sow
fresh seeds to show
true traces flow,
through/in/ on grow
in ALL all know
alas we pass
but once through farce
before Time's crow
thrice calls, with no
reprieve and so
weeds overgrow...
All bravado
winds staccato
turn tornado
away soon blow
breath's ribboned bow,
'mid worms below
life's strife trace race stow.

So, Mower, mow,
sweep all who weep,
would keepsakes keep,
with final coup de grâce.

(14 February 2010)

poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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