how to gild a lily

Death stalks me, cunning and
irreverent, ambushes me
with a deep righteous depression days after
the golden sky set and the morning
arrived with gilded pools of liquid light.

Days grow shorter in the autumn of my years,
there is no point to my pointing, the moon
will always remain long after the end of my days.
Those who will remember me will remember what
they will, perhaps with a trace of kindness before
my ashes will have blown away,

They will receive
Hallmark cards of poems and laugh at the irony.