Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. The mind blanks at the glare. But at the total emptiness for ever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. No trick dispels. A small unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can't escape, Yet can't accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun.