In the quiet of the night, a whisper heard,
Philip Larkinâs voice, in shadows, stirred.
Words of death, in somber tone,
Reflecting fears, we all have known.
The inevitability of our final breath,
A truth he faced without a fret.
His lines, a mirror to our soul,
Revealing truths, dark and whole.
Through his lens, we see the end,
A journeyâs close, around the bend.
No grand illusions, just pure stark,
In his poetry, we find our mark.
Yet in this darkness, light is found,
In acceptance, peace is crowned.
Philip Larkinâs deathly prose,
In our hearts, forever grows.