How many deaths are we allotted, then?
It depends on the strictness of your definition, one supposes,
For it comes in several degrees of fatality and finality,
And most often in fits and starts,
A process by which we offer up limbs,
Bits of heart and soul,
So that we can forestall some disaster
Even more wretched, more unwelcome,
And even if we walk more slowly, more cautiously
As the repeated runnings of the gauntlet exact their toll,
It may not be the implacable onslaught of age
Which roils our sleep and the periphery of our waking hours
As much as the knowledge
That, unlike our multi-epoched feline brethren,
We may not land on our feet
As the unseen hands blithely toss us
Down one more set of stairs
Which lead to the abyss.