Food is
bland, and my drink has no flavor;
The taste of
death has come to me.
“Ask not for
whom the bell tolls,” said John Donne;
The sound of
death has come to me.
I dread the
wrinkled face in my mirror;
The look of
death has come to me.
I smell the odor
of my aging flesh;
The smell of
death has come to me.
The pain in
my bones, my back, and my head,
The touch of
death has come to me.
