March of the Inevitable

The whistling tune of death, a spectral call,
marching souls across the ravine’s sprawl.
One by one, they shuffle in line,
caught between moments, slipping through time.

The chances grow thinner, the light starts to fade,
recovery a dream, restoration delayed.
More hours spent in the grip of fear,
as the end draws close, whispering near.

What you once ignored now comes to light,
recognition sharpens in the depths of night.
Every thought, every worry you buried deep
rises now to haunt your sleep.

The ravine of life is narrow and steep,
a path where shadows silently creep.
With each step forward, you hear the refrain
of death’s slow tune, a sorrowful strain.

The hours stretch long, as worries entwine,
what you’ve recognized now feels like a sign.
The end you feared, the truth you hid,
now faces you with all you did.

For every breath is measured, each beat a toll,
a countdown that pulls at the edge of your soul.
The march continues, no turning back—
the whistling tune stays steady on track.

Yet, in the darkness, as fear takes hold,
there’s a strange acceptance in the cold.
For the ravine may be dark, the end so near,
but in letting go, you abandon fear.

The whistling fades as you cross the line,
a soul at peace, no longer confined.
The march is over, the journey complete—
you’ve found your end, bittersweet.