It’s only afterwards, in retrospect, after death,
That the retrospective life being considered
Appears to have been every day a day closer
To death. It’s easy to count backwards,
When starting with a definite end. It’s easy
To see the whole as a series of standard units.
It’s easy to pretend, but the end wasn’t there
Until it was behind, with the rest of the living,
And it was never there at all for the living being
Who couldn’t be there in the end. Each day
Is uncountable millions of steps closer to,
And also further away from death, a dance
In which later positions are sometimes less
Advanced. The living being is never another day
Closer to the living end. A day can only extend.