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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.