Death is neither sparse nor dense
At first it is burning hot
Then it is itching cold
With salty waterish in between
Getting inside our souls
And under our skins.
It walks through the front door
Both unexpected and inevitable
Pale, calculating, numbing
And spares us the humiliation
Strips us of our origin and memories
Turning us back into the raw material.
And those who stay after we go
Will stay full of tears and fear
Forever changed by our last glance
Shaken and humble, speechless
Tightly gripping the empty space
Mindful of their very own mortality.
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