In Ragged Breaths
Age wrinkles up the face of youth
and dulls the eyes to mask the truth;
in no time, Death is at the door,
a shadow stepping on the floor.
Our foolish ears pretend to hide
from what is drawing near outside;
we gasp for air in ragged breaths,
ignoring all these quiet deaths.
His scraping nails scratch at the bone,
to claim what we had thought to own;
and as we drop our final tears,
old Death drinks up our mortal fears.
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