Darkness approaches, primeval, without form, and void;
it grasps at my chest, with its ashes-and-dust arms, and squeezes my heart;
it stinks of sheol and the scent of sepulchres.
God stands afar off.
Poetry is futile, like prayer: rhythm and rhyme, a waste of time.
Count neither syllables, accents, days, hours, minutes, seconds, the slowly declining, metred beats of your metronome heart.
You, who seek for Time, the appointed time is now!
Close your eyes, hear the silent sound of – witness – the
Darkness approaching.

“preserve Thou those that are appointed to die” -Psalm 79:11