Death waits . . .
Death speaks and you shudder; but you're still listening.
Death whispers, and your neck hair straightens.
Life happens, so full, yet you're bored!
Still, death holds dark fascination.
Why? But for fear, you still approach,
neck hair still, rigid, and you move yet closer.
Life beckons behind you, has always been with you;
yet death drops while you heed no notice.
Humor sits in a corner, eyes riveted on you.
You make no notice of your own unconscious dismissal.
You smile, seemingly arm in arm with life;
yet you walk in death, fascinated, without life.
Your legs stalks, your eyes windows unseeing.
No more hackles, no more stiffening of muscles.
As death became your friend, life stood weeping.
Someone plays single notes on a piano, just for you.
But only in requiem, one you will never hear.
Time to weep for the lost, who would not find,
not knowing that all their life, they were alone, within,
while life yet weeps, and death, still, awaits . . .