The Fading Aroma of Time

I understand Death is accompanied by a distinct aroma

I've been around those recently visited,

Death's cold grip just beginning to thaw,

but an odor, this smell, I cannot recall.

The smell I know precedes Death's touch

Something that mingles attic mustiness

with dank basement earthiness.

Places where the discarded or seldom used

are sent to await fate.

Will I, as time draws to an end, emit this same stink?

Will visitors humor me during their stay

Outwardly feigning their happiness for my presence

While internally decrying the experience?

When I go, I wonder how it will be?

A quick implosion?

A slow and steady grind?

Will it be from years of apathy fueled neglect?

Will those who've passed me by finally stop,

scratching their heads, saying what a shame?

Will they wrinkle their nose at the fading aroma of time?