The Clock

When I think of death
-a sharp, shiny blade-
I start to shrink,
trying to make myself
smaller and smaller,
too insignificant to kill.


Still, he will come for me
-pale, bony hands-
with the same precision
he used on my father
while a cloud of morphine
obscured his eyes.


This certainty saddens me:
all of this turned into nothing,
not even a mound of dust
redolent of life's vigor,
not even the shadow
of a candle!


Is a soft, numb passage
into that silent night
all I can hope for?
Is the grave better than
the cradle of this life?
These words echo
inside the room:

no one listening
but the clock.