A dance with Death.

Are narrowing concept.
Isn't everything cancer?
Inertia? Nothing is!
Stopping is never a reality.

My true self prefers another existence.
Yet, here I sit watching the slow twisting.
Many scaffolds dangling upon
Reelled out unending lines,
Where their feet hang twitching.

Why?
To visit those condemned at the moment of their mortality.
What is that?
Or to go follow them to a graveside - freshly dug - stand head bowed.
Death mustn't be at all!
Don't you see?

Thursday's steps are truly a stampede
Of the slowly shuffling:
A plague of never ceding feet;
Unknowing
That they hover before a crucial
footfall. Decisions are made.

Is this the waiting room?
Is this purgatory?
"Please take a seat"
And we'll deliver it.
Death is our service
Striking off the moments.
With a faux smile
Pointless spoken words
"Are you well?"

Wetherby:
Meso
A place unchallenged perpetually stepping; mundane!
What is death?
"It's nice and cool here!"
Bones chatter.

A sigh. A lot of frowns. Wrinkled brows.
Expatiation.
And there the queue was forming ahead;
A quite distant, unbearable,
pin holed space.

So without hesitation I, stupidly, joined this conformity.
Never stopping to slap myself.
To slice out my eyes
But poured molten dread.

Sliding out,
Never trying to resist
This universal drag,
Squirming is all I managed.