Any moment may be our last,
That is the truth we hide
As much from ourselves as others—
Death travels by our side.

His vulgar, invisible scythe
Grinning down from mid-air
At those who ignore its presence—
Pretending it isn’t there.

Nothing in our brief lives compares
However long the climb
Or short the stroll, his shadow is
All we know, all the time.

Occasionally, perhaps in in ecstasy,
Our emotions play decoy,
And we may lose him—accidentally?—
Such moments are called joy.