Posted in Death, Poetry

At the close.

All of us are going to die. We know this, and use time as a buffer against fear, to distance ourselves from the inevitable end. People spend their last moments in varying degrees of fear and disbelief, despite knowing that all things die. I have often wondered as to how I’d feel, emotionally, as I left for my heavenly abode, to use the customary euphemism. This is a brief reflection of my thoughts.
What will you do when the reaper comes
And beckons with a skeletal hand?
That scythe to slice you out of life
The hourglass having drained its sand.
Will he catch you unawares too soon,
Have you flail and thrash with horror deep
Cling onto light in the spreading gloom
And clutch at kin who with grief weep?
Or will you depart with quiet resign
And follow him to the tunnel’s end
Sigh with sweet acceptance without
The desire of broken things to mend.
Sad will be if its you who calls
The hooded scythe-bearer to receive
Your soul, to escape the blasphemy,
The shadow of regret to deceive.
I wonder what will my bearing be
When quietus comes to claim my breath.
I pray for easy passing with
Strength to sail the ship of death.


A reluctant cynic with a morbid fascination for skulls and Schopenhauer's philosophy. Sugar addict. Poetry lover.

One thought on “At the close.

  1. How well written! At your age to write so poignantly about death is indeed laudable. Yes i pray for easy passing with strength to sail the ship of death.
    God Bless you, my dear.


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