Time Of Death

A metaphor

Thirty-seven hours drifted calmly into thirty-eight.
A tranquil setting of the shiny hot yellow ball at thirty-nine.
Rising like a pale grey phoenix, the circular stone at forty. 
Repeat.

Thirty-seven hours drifted calmly into thirty- eight. 
Breath escaped its chamber swiftly at thirty-nine. 
Deflating the lopsided cone-shaped lobe at forty.
Repeat.

Stop.

Pumping ceased at forty-one.
Blood pooled into purplish polka dots at forty-two. 
Gums receded, revealing its toothy core at forty-three.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat. 
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.