An inkling in the eyes of dying men
Is that despair of “nothing more than this.”
Looking close, you see the darkness hems
Them in and soon it all becomes abyss.
I think about my future death a lot,
And when I do, I feel at once a rush
Of life and utter coldness in my thoughts
To feel the reaper’s crooked hand go brush!
Reminding one of death reminds to live,
But no amount of contemplation soothes
This fear: eradication’s all death gives
And all else ebbs into the neural grooves.
As in my uncle’s eyes, so too will mine:
There is no preparation for what I’ll find.