You used to know the very words to say
To contradict the place where life was at.
But, as you stride toward your dying day,
There doesn’t seem to be much point in that.
Instead, you’re more inclined to keeping still
Than squeezing out the juice that life has left,
And trying to refrain from falling ill
In order to pull off the grandest theft.
Yet none of this will matter when you’re gone;
It’s not as if it matters now you’re here;
You’re anyway resigned to carry on
Until the lights of being disappear.
And, when at longest last in fact they do,
Then that shall be the end of little you.
Photo by Daniel Gregoire on Unsplash
Mortality (2)
