A Snake

If I were an old man, an old woman waiting for Death to come by, I would save to myself every single judgment, the drops of venom, the vomit and bile. That is, of course, if I had acquired some wisdom through the road.
You yourself can just wait patiently for Death, grasp tightly to your memories, put a hand under her skirt and drool around your venom. It will not detain the slow course of the days, the certain sound of the clock and the smile that you suspect unravels inside that black pitch a feet away.
For your worries and your judgements are fleeting and thin, no more than half a whisper to the ages, but that which caused them have proven already to be bigger than you.