Chris's Death, like Everyone's

Suddenly life turns to dust,
Which then just blows away,
And everything from hope to joy
Lies naked to the day.

Pain seems insupportable,
And time crawls like a snail
Towards an endless nothingness
Before which all things pale.

The point? Ah, yes! There is no point.
It's all a mystery,
Why anything is here at all,
Or how Chris came to be.

And so he waits upon the cliff,
And once a year he dies,
While just behind him on the grass
A field of glory lies.