The Last Breath
by John Herlihy
I don't know about the last breath,
We can only imagine but never know.
How do we think of the specter of death,
That breathes upon our door as wind to blow.
By our side stands a hooded figure with a sickle,
Perhaps an angel of mercy with folded wings.
The mind slipping, falling, fading, no longer fickle,
The breast rising and falling, the breath still sings.
Until that final moment promised at the beginning,
Promised with the first intake of breath.
A lifetime promise of living and breathing,
Until the final moment of breath at our death.
The notorious death rattle, a frantic cry,
A rasping struggle or quietly falling asleep.
A labored breathing until the final sigh,
A gentle rain heard as the heavens weep.
Whatever, however it happens, it will be quick,
Whatever happens we won't even know.
One moment we are here in bed feeling sick,
The next, the lonely night drenched in moonglow.
- - - - -
Copyright ©John Herlihy
Monday 1 September 2025
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Rebecca
But, like you explore in this poem, there inevitably will be a last breath. I think a lot about how pleasant it would be to take that last breath while sleeping. There's something about a lack of drama, a lack of counting the moments while awake, and, of course, hopefully during a pleasant dream.
But based on the times I've been close to death. They all are nearly the same. For example, last Good Friday, about 3 o'clock when I call my partner, I started convulsing and my tenant found me. She called my partner who came and 911 who took me to the emergency room.
I woke up the next morning in the hospital from what felt like a normal sleep, with no remembrance of my thrashing and delirium from drinking too much water and low potassium and sodium in my blood.
There you have it. People may observe what they think is your last breath, but generally, you don't. You're spared by the event itself.
Ron