Close to death one year removed,
Should be thankful, should feel blessed.
Linear mortality hushed and shunned,
But not denied.
Staving off the Reaper’s scythe,
Delaying the inevitable,
The end is still as certain as
The rising sun, the evening tide.
One tries not to think about
The timing or the certainty.
Far too many daily dues to
Clutter up a busy mind.
Roads traversed, roads yet to travel,
Chores left from misguided youth.
Blisters chafing booted heels.
Far too much to leave behind.
Precious time, beating, fleeting.
No emotion,
So unkind.
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