d e a t h

One thing that's as certain as your birth is your death.

I've heard this philosophical shibboleth.

I’m counting down minutes. I’m counting down breaths.

I'll take a rain check on this chat; there are tasks to be done.

Temporal grains slip through my grip while you believe you’ll go on.

I’m anxious about yesterday and the week after next.

Death's hand is on you; there’s no severing its grasp.

I'm submerged by my past; drowning in fear of tomorrow.

You're enslaved by your suffering, shackled tight to your sorrow.

I’ve got ample time to figure it out.

Your future—elusive, concepts swirling about.

I'm busy with distractions as a means of escape.

You should get back to living before life slips away.

Yeah, maybe sometime, but today's not that day.

Your final moment is slated down to the second.

I'm too overwhelmed for a moment of reflection.

You can't escape; your final breath will be beckoned.

I've resentment I can't vanquish and battles to fight.

Death is coming just as sure as it’s already arrived.

I've illusions to foster, wounds to hold. I'm scarred by life and can't let go.

The past, just thoughts you allow. Your future, a guess. The living is NOW.

I’m entrenched in this story; it’s all that I know.

All that exists is this moment, and you know your plight.

How can I be freed from these loops when my grip is so tight?

Time is the flame, your life is the wick.

Why is your finger on my pulse?

Tick...tick...tick...tick.

_______________________________________________