The Gates
I sit and watch those pass by.
Every second, one goes through.
Through what? The gates of death.
All those who go through them,
They are all so very different,
Of every shape, size, and colour.
Some are wrinkled, used up,
They had a long successful life.
Others pass through discoloured,
Alcohol didn't help in the end.
Some came covered in blood.
If they were killed or suicidal,
I will never find that one out.
Several passed by scarred,
They seen much, too much.
A few came smooth and clean,
Their heart couldn't keep up.
Half passed so small, so young,
Coming so early on tiny feet.
Half came through old; grown,
They wished they came early.
Soon, I shall pass through too.
I will have my scars and faults.
I may be young when I come,
Or maybe time will pass me by.
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