Conversations With Death

We talked long into the night through the opiate haze, Beyond meaningless pleasantries and the bargaining phase, For there’s no point in arguing the ultimate toss And no reason in delaying the consummate loss. I just talked and he listened to my rambling muse, Of the past and the present and dead man’s shoes, And the therapy of his ministry soothed like balm As he attended in stillness and infinite calm. Sleep when it came rolled in like treacle waves, Soporifically kind as it filled the psychic graves, And I wondered to ask if it was my time or not, Yet had left it too late as if simply forgot. I felt, though, him leave my side, my shoulder slightly brushed, When awakened to ambience both sterile and hushed, In the corridors his breath faded, receding away, With the echoing farewell: “Not today, not today, not today…”