Like remoras surrounding a great shark, Death too has company.
Little flecks of despair floating in the air around your body.

Desperate for their master, they harm you.
They can not touch a hair of your body, nor lay a hand on your shoulder.

Instead, they whisper.
Mean little thoughts, innocent suggestions that are nothing if not malicious.

Little proposals masked as questions-
"what if you did"

They can not push you off a building,
but they can urge you to stand at its top during a windy night.

They can not control your body to run in front of the hurrying cars,
but they can tell you-
"maybe you should"

Death has many little devotees, reuniting at the collection of your soul.