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It can take me when the end comes,
be it by sickness, age, or gun,

Snuff out a light started at birth,
stuff me down in cold, dark Earth,

Make my loved ones wail and cry,
when it comes my time to die,

But one thing that gets me is this:
it can never make me not exist,

It can’t undo what I have wrought,
blank out the lessons that I taught,

Can’t change the cold reality,
that things were done, and done by me,

Can’t rob the joy, the love, the fear,
that stretched across my numbered years,

I think that’s why death is so rough,
so brutal on the ones we love,

Forever it must cut us down,
our lives ring like deafening sound,

A song that’s sung, but not by it,
a symphony that will not quit,

It wishes it could be a part,
partake in life’s tangible art,

But death can’t feel the living joys,
so it hunts us, ever annoyed,

Can never know a baby’s hug,
or bare feet on an old, shag rug,

Can never taste a barbecue,
or the smell of a car when new,

Can’t know that it’s a ticking clock,
that gives meaning, makes us take stock,


Can’t know that when you do not end,
it might as well all be pretend,

I think that’s why death brings the hate,
it lives a life that has no weight,

However short these years of mine,
death is jealous of my time.

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