Mortality is like a weight, suspended on a string.
It remains balanced and constant
until Fate takes that string between sharp iron blades
and permits it to come crashing violently down.

Our lives teeter on the edge of metaphoric clock hands.
With one motion, they will fall and we will end.
Life is fragile, like the most delicate of porcelain dolls.
A sight to behold, until it is broken and tossed out.

Even as we live, we gradually fade away.
With each passing second, a new nail is driven into our coffins,
and another shovel's scrape prepares our graves.
Ready or not, it will come, and we will have to face it.