Death, the unknowable,
Hangs over one’s aged head
Like the sword of Damocles.

Will one depart with just a whisper
Into the endless night…
Forsake all sight and sound,
All touch and taste,
With the last breath?

No second chances in the dark embrace.
No redemption in silent time.
Not even adrift.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story


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