What does death feel?
Does death rehearse it’s visit?
Does it pause standing by the door,
searching for the right words?
Does it feel awkward?
Does it feel uneasy?
What does death feel
when it has come
to claim you?
What does death feel??

Or maybe I should ask
what does death feel like
to the one it came for?
Does one feel its cold breath?
Or does one sense its heavy shadow?
How does death feel to the one who’s dying?

Perhaps they both feel awkward.
Death humbly swaying by the door
rehearsing its intrusion.
While the still living on the other side,
aware of the commotion,
aware of what’s coming,
awkwardly awaits death’s formal entrance.

Do they exchange handshakes?
Or is there a silent glance?
The glance that’s deeper than the deepest depth,
the depth that is inviting.
Or suffocating?
Or drowning?
Mysterious?
Or spooky?

Does death take you by the hand
and lead you away, like an old friend?
Or does it nudge you like a sorry guard
that transfers an aristocrat from palace to a cell?

Is death weary of its function?
Does it get bored, tired or depressed
collecting countless souls,
all ages, all professions, and all genders?
Day or night,
spring or fall,
In Africa, Australia, or Europe?

Death appears gainfully employed…
It manages to visit all, eventually.
Efficient, I must say.

“What does death feel?”
remains a question.