In quiet corners of his mind,
Larkin pondered death’s embrace,
The ticking clock, a constant sound,
Life’s fleeting moments, swift to race.

Shadows cast by autumn leaves,
Whisper tales of time’s decay,
In every breath, a silent plea,
For more than dust to mark our way.

The echoes of his written word,
Speak softly of the end unknown,
Yet in their depth, a solace found,
In knowing we are not alone.

Embracing darkness, with eyes wide,
He saw the beauty in the end,
For in the quiet, still and deep,
Life’s truest essence would transcend.