In shadows cast by fleeting time,
Larkin’s words on death do rhyme,
A contemplation, somber and deep,
Of the eternal, endless sleep.

He saw the end with a poet’s eyes,
No solace found in the skies,
Just the stark, unvarnished truth,
Of life’s inevitable, cruel sleuth.

The silence that follows the last breath,
The quiet march towards certain death,
Larkin’s musings, raw and bare,
On the void that’s always there.

Yet in his lines, a legacy remains,
A poet’s voice through joy and pains,
Echoing still, beyond the grave,
A testament to the brave.