We stand in the quietness of a half-lit room
where our fingertips trace our final outline
and the air tastes of departed echoes.

Our pulse is a metronome of dread
ticking secrets away beneath brittle ribs.
Will it be today
when our breath dissolves into a sigh
and we vanish like midnight’s promise?

We ask each other in quiet tones: “Will it be today?”
“The hush already tightens around my breath.”
“Yet I cling to the rumour of tomorrow.”

Or could it be tomorrow
when the curtains draw back on emptiness
and the shadows swallow what remains of our shape?

We stand on the edge of a borrowed moment,
feet trembling on the threshold of silence,
no footsteps behind us, only the echo
of what once called itself alive.

Yet beyond our fear, a sovereign whisper lingers:
God has the timing in his hands,
measuring each second between mercy and fate.
Will it be today
or could it be tomorrow
when the hourglass shatters at His command?