Six months since

Do I still grieve?
As death attempts to grasp me
in a vice of fear,
I grieve before my time -
to lament, to weep -
it as risen like a cold sliver of the moon.
But it is yet noon... It is yet noon.
I struggle to escape,
to wrench free of the terror
seeking to hold me down -
to murder me
before anyone has even died.
I recall it said,
"Death, be not proud."
It rings in my ears,
"Death, where is your sting?"
I rejoice knowing that
your shrouded head pales
in the light
of the more needful thing.