ROCK AND A HARD PLACE.
So, in the end, there is nothing. Nothing.
Having life, now that sure is something.
The tribulations. Huffing and puffing.
But means little as means of answering.
For what is meaning? Just something contrived.
Giving purpose within which to reside.
Living’s justification is implied.
By doing something outwardly applied.
Yet, I will become dust, and even less.
No brain cells functioning. Not me. Useless.
It will happen, and pointless to protest.
Notion of anything more, lay to rest.
But life can be grievous, and hard to face.
No meaning beyond. Rock and a hard place.
Win the lottery on the day you die.
Arrive and say ‘hello’. Told ‘Go. Goodbye’.
Chance of betterment but bet will not try.
Questions never asked, receive a reply.
Think, I’m on stage, but the curtain comes down.
Into the final act, the beginning.
What I thought lost for good, suddenly found.
Fortune, misfortune, sends straight head spinning.
A conundrum, the Lazarus effect.
Forgiven, I suppose, but do not care.
Return to life unlikely I expect.
All to be gone but will feel no despair.
House of cards strewn as vigorously fanned.
Could not be worse…At last, dealt a good hand. ???
It is not a natural state to be.
Dead, but somehow alive, allegedly.
Something in a horror film you might see.
A zombie; a ‘not all there’ entity.
Intensity, though, about the absence.
Wants to attain what’s unattainable.
Unachievable, but desire immense.
And effort. To live once again is all.
But already a lifeless existence.
A surly state, from long desperation.
The longing has been with such persistence.
Forever halving half-life damnation.
In the past, was potential to fulfil.
Now, lost soul, and lessening mindless will.
WHAT’S THE POINT?
What is the point of annihilation?
Putting an end to it. To be humbled.
But why the complete disintegration?
The same whether we’re cowardly or bold.
Why enforced complete and utter ruin?
Not having any communication.
Humankind, but not me, is renewing.
So very harsh, the extermination.
So, the aftermath, obliteration.
About which, no worthwhile information.
Could be a pain free initiation.
But then there’s no further intimation.
To cease to exist in entirety.
For my being, it is calamity.
I believe there’s a metaphoric soul.
A compository of compassion.
Wisdom and virtue’s purposeful control.
Unbowed to everyday distraction.
This soul may lead to the unexpected,
comprising faith, belief, morality
in varying degrees, introspective.
Perhaps this could outlast mortality.
Is this a comforting superstition
for responses whilst alive for when dead?
Linked to beneficial intuition.
And not absence, but life beyond, instead.
Unevidenced the passage of the soul.
Yet, still worthwhile, metaphysical role.
WHAT IS DEATH?
So diabolically tortuous.
Notions of what it is like to be dead.
Extremes of what could be are infamous.
For activity, what is there instead?
Without body function or consciousness.
No control over the slightest aspect.
Nothing new that’s taken my interest.
Whatever will be, I cannot expect.
No playing any more with thoughts and words.
An absence of essence; of being me.
Disintegration can never be stirred.
Feel all that now, but not then, intensely.
Gone. Gone. Gone beyond. Forever beyond.
With lives before, now, and to come, this bond.
No need for attachment to anything.
Objects I know have a life of their own.
In my life they still form an anchoring.
But, after me, in someone else’s home.
All trophies will lose their meaning for me.
Treasure them now but they’re only short hold.
Into another’s hands their destiny.
They’ll not be mine anymore when all’s told.
Like loved ones, will be lost from memory.
As forgetfulness clouds over my mind.
So everything will be dead to me.
No cause for worry, then. I’ll be resigned.
No clutching on to dearest possessions.
Their stories with me will be lost legends.
Few things impinge on the morbidity,
that infiltrates much of my poetry.
appears, averting a calamity.
In this mode of my creativity
disbelief surfaces at my demise.
Although have this innate ability,
I’m prevented seeing beyond these eyes.
Yet I know that an end is haunting me.
And therefore ending sensitivity.
So why delve for the words, incredibly,
that seek to make a connectivity?
‘though I do not think I really succeed,
it’s for this contemplation feel the need.
In due course I will be left with nothing.
Not even myself. Nothing sentient.
Oblivion forever. There’s the thing.
Understand, accept what I can’t prevent.
And, here, a life that is solitary.
A preparation of sorts, I suppose.
The decline will be involuntary.
My pride …acuity of thought … it goes.
So, the return to meaningless awaits.
Darkening the glossy glow of the light.
End avoidance, the ultimate to face.
If asked, I’d say, and even mean, “alright”.
This last word’s subtle ambiguity,
can drift me into perpetuity.