In the hour of my death, I did something insignificant,
as I often would. A book fell to the floor, bending the pages,
which I never liked. A stillborn note cut off mid-sentence
never got a chance to become a stanza. A cup of tea gone cold
and a half-eaten cookie—not even a madeleine—that at best
could remind someone of my cholesterol problems were waiting
to be thrown away. Only the clock, as always, marked the passing
moments with its regular tick-tock. In the hour of my death,
I did something insignificant because, in the end, I was taken
by surprise again.
hidden pilcrow 