DEATH AT MY DOOR
Each year doesn't last as long as the one before
Seasons go streaking by in a blur
The highs and the lows of love and life have fallen into a slow hopeless cadence
And I clamber through each gray day doing more of what I had done
The day before.
I stay inside
I cannot decide
Whether in the chair or pacing the floor.
Death is scraping like a withered twig at my door - gently insistent...
To dance my last
If only I open to it and embrace what fate awaits
It is only a matter of time.
How much more?
Will I choose,
Or will I be chosen?
Death is excruciatingly patient.
Please email this poem to your friends and colleagues, and share this poem through your social media channels if you appreciated it. Thank You!