Death is a Process
It starts as a whisper, a sigh in the chest, A heaviness draping the bones into rest. The eyelids grow weary, the footsteps grow slow, Each moment of tiredness—death starts to show. Not sudden, not swift, not a thief in the night, But patient, persistent, withdrawing the light. A yawn is a warning, a breath drawn too deep, A silence that lingers, a pull into sleep. The weight of existence, the drag of the years, The aching of muscles, the salt of old tears. Each weariness felt, each pause in the day, Is death in rehearsal, just inching its way. Yet life in defiance keeps pulling us back, A fire still flickers in moments that lack. For tiredness lingers, but rising remains, Until all resistance is lost to the chains.
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