I'm dying, my friends, but it's okay. I'm only dying slowly.
I don't have a diagnosed illness, like you'd think, unless you can count 'life,' but I think some would call that thought 'blasphemous.'
I can feel the approach of the end, stalking me on soft feet. A mere breath, coaxing me towards the deepest sleep.
I've made my bed, so no worries, I'll lie in it. I've fluffed the down pillows and starched the sheets, I won't have to be afraid of dreams this time around.
I have a sense it won't be old age that does me in, but I mightn't die young, either, not that it really matters.
I'll take my time in this world, but once the sand's at the bottom of the glass, I won't look back.
Do I flirt with death? Oh yes. I've brushed hands with him a few times. I don't think he minds that much.