Nothing Personified

I have never thought of death. Well, that's not true. Everyone does at a time. A peopled perishing if you will. We constitute it with sickles or in a carriage or call him soft names. Man versus death; man conquers this nothing by attaching arms, ears, heart so it may feel its indifference resonating like fingernails on fiberglass. The great human figure, now cyclical of its mortal fragility. Were our endeavors false, these simulacra, these apparitions beset gaily on their creator? Like a cement plant, are we indebted to the dust made by our hands, and fills our lungs? All I know is it's an inconceivable sadness to think I have never thought of death.