The Senses of Death

Does thou not hear the moaning of the moors
that does so echo in the popping of bubbles and the snapping of twigs?
Or art thou so bundled up with pennies and laws
that thou can't see over the wicked whiskers of thy wig?

Does thou not see the crows and ragged ravens
nesting on the dead tree over the hill where thou shall soon be?
Or art thou too brained with power, pride and havens
that thy can't accept that all men soon lie under that tree?

Does thou not smell the stench
of one thousand furnace fires flitting over flesh?
Or art thy shoes shined too much and thy knees too wrenched
that thou care not for life but for food, wealth and dress?

Does thou not taste the tears
of a thousand weaping mothers?
Or art thy tastebuds so full of fears
for your blood that they plot against thou and thy brothers?

Can you feel the stabbing knife
that lays you down and says goodnight?
Or are you moaning about 'wasted life'
that you didn't put up an ounce of fight?