On The Cusp Of Death Poem by Mark Heathcote

On the cusp of death, a moth fights not just for the light
but for its fragile life; drowning, eventually surrendering.

When there's no breath left to save in watery ringlets
what will you do, when your corrupted lungs collapse?

When in ever decreeing-motes, you yield and submit:
more to the point will you embrace the dark unknown?

Will you balance on a knifes edge with nothing to lose
and die remembering, every happy beat of your heart.

And think to yourself; no, I'm not here alone
this last breath is just a key lock turn from home.