Poem: Death


Death moves silently
But not always swiftly.
We know death is nearby
We feel it, we smell it, we see it.
Death teases with its embrace
Not yet, not yet, not yet.
Death plays upon the stage
The audience holds its breath.
Sometimes death comes quickly
Like the strike of a cobra.
Or, it settles over us slowly
Like the fog on the moor.
Not now, not now, not now
Life is not fair, death should be.