Death's Hand grows closer, ever colder,
As my futile attempts become ever bolder.
Searching and pondering are all for naught,
As the short noose of Life grows ever so taut.
For no one survives Death,
Though most fight to the last breath.
To stay alive their dearest wish,
But a wish is a dish so much like a fish.
Something once used you shall never get back,
For wasting a chance is a gift
For which we possess a knack.
My throat grows tighter,
And my knuckles grow whiter,
As Death's embrace floats ever closer,
I forgo the last semblance of closure,
For unfinished business is a profession I know,
And I'm sure I'll have a lot left when I go.
And the only blessing may not be much,
But might I use it, just as a crutch?
Because at least fairness is the name of the game,
One where I break the rules, I know.
Yet Death comes for all,
Whether married or alone,
Boring or famed,
Sober or stoned,
Wild or tamed.
So why does it not come for me?