What is it to look through eyes
That do not see, cannot perceive?
To listen to soft melodies and symphonies
With ears that do not hear?
What of it to kiss cold, cracked lips
That can no longer feel warmth?
How can one describe the sweet nectar
Of love with a tongue that
Has long forgotten the art of taste?
Why is it fleeting, the scent of pine tree and spices,
Leaving behind only the smell of rot and decay
To penetrate through eternity?

What is death?
Is it nothing more than a poets plaything?
I've never experienced death, not first hand
And so all the encounters I've come to draw on now
Are ones of fantasy and story-tellings,
So I humbly ask for an honest answer, If I may

What is death?
*And will I be ready?