Death | In Passing

I come with a foot in the grave,
Limping down some broad way,
A scraping, dragging, noisome reek,
“It’s just the wind.” I say.
They hurry on.

I smile – and no one  believes it!
‘It’s sinister – a grin!’
My canines flash ferociously,
“A closer walk with thee?” I say.
They look  away,
And hurry on.

My hand is gentle – cold and waxy,
A rasping on your shoulder blade,
Like restless leaves – or rotting silk,
“Share this cup with me?” I say.
They shudder,
And hurry on.

I pass politely – not  breathing,
‘They cannot hear me now.’
Footprints mark my leaving,
A long, uneven line.
That long exhalation follows – no stranger -
I hurry on.

“And I am not frightened of dying. Any time will do, I don’t mind. Why should I be frightened of dying? There’s no reason for it – you’ve got to go sometime.”
“I never said I was frightened of dying.” — Pink Floyd, The Great Gig in the Sky