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My Last Sunset



I feel the curtain descending,
My days growing fewer.
Twilight is an unwavering
Relentless pursuer.

Mortality is sobering,
It spares no one the truth.
It lays to rest the strongest heart,
And peels away our youth.

And buried ‘neath the earth we find
The bones of fallen prey.
The greatest, and the least of us,
And all the shades of gray.

From amoeba to dinosaurs,
However large or small,
Life can’t escape this predator,
The reaper conquers all.

But we can live with dignity,
Unbound by terror’s net.
A life spent in fear’s shadow is
Potential never met!

We can search each day for safety,
Hide our heads in the sand,
But with Jesus as our armor,
We have the strength to stand.

So do not weep when I depart,
I never lost my way.
I stood against life’s errant storms,
And fought another day!

I’ll sail into that good night with
Christ’s name upon my lips.
And leave this vessel to the deep,
With all the other ships!

And I will do that without fear,
Or lingering regret.
For salvation’s light awaits me,
Beyond my last sunset.

About this poem

How will you face the end? There will be one, you know. The sun will set on your life, and like that, it will be over. And you will face that end in the same way that you face life. And how DO you face life? Do you hide? Do you let COVID rule your choices? If you spent the last year and a half cowering in place, and running from every unmasked neighbor, then your last sunset will be VERY unpleasant.

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Written on August 13, 2021

Submitted by MarkS on August 13, 2021

Modified by MarkS

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Mark Spencer

My name is Mark Spencer and, off and on, I have been writing poetry since 1977. I was born in Bend, Oregon on February 7th 1959, six short days after the day the music died, along with three of its icons: Buddy Holly, J.P. Richardson (The Big Bopper), and Richie Valens. The Eisenhower administration was on its way out, and America was teetering on the brink of another war. A new administration was about to emerge under the leadership of a young Senator from Massachusetts named John F. Kennedy. He would see his country through some of its most volatile times, until his untimely death in 1963. I was raised in a small suburb of Los Angeles called Lennox. Lennox rested between Hawthorn and Inglewood and was in the flight path of the Los Angeles International Airport. My brothers and I would play a game with the approaching aircraft. We would attempt to guess which airline the planes belonged to, before they were close enough to read. The winner, of course, was the one with the most correct guesses that day. I grew up with three brothers: Bryan was closest to me in age, and I was the eldest of the four brothers. Darien came next and my youngest brother Ross completed the quartet. We were close in age, no more than two years and four months apart, but we were even closer as brothers. We were our own best friends, frequently playing together at the park or in the yard. But time passed quickly, and bygone days slipped into the archives of memory, leaving a hole in my heart. The four of us grew up, and traveled different paths, leaving the adventures of our youth behind. Yet, to this day, I find myself wishing for one more game of over-the-line. My parents were, by no means rich. Union politics kept my father out of work for a time, and my mother was forced, by circumstance, to take a job with Polaroid. Somehow we always had food on the table, a roof over our heads, and presents under the Christmas tree. My father was able to build a strong working relationship with a large contracting company and things got much better. That is, until my parents divorced in 1972. I blamed myself for my parent’s misfortune, as many children do, and I retreated inside myself. The following few years were chaotic, I rebelled against the world; so much so that my parents had to ship me off to live with my grandmother. She was the greatest influence on my life at the time, and that experience pulled me back from the edge. The path she helped to put me on opened me up to the world of creativity. I owe her more than I could ever repay. So…I write…not for me, or about me, but for her, and the topics she thought were important. So here we are today, 45 years later, and I’m still writing, still addressing those topics, still weaving a little morality into each poem. more…

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    "My Last Sunset" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 26 Jan. 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/106935/my-last-sunset>.

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