DEATH
Lying on my deathbed, just a few more days,
Once I begged for life — now death is what I crave.
Neither brave, nor truly naïve,
No longer lost in gone days.
The thought of living feels so vague,
Like fire stripped of flame,
Like lines read from a final torn-out page.
Yet the ending invariably stays the same.
A game of chess we never chose,
Where none begin and none may close,
We move the pieces day by day,
Until the players drift away.
So tell me, what’s the difference then?
The child of war, the old man?
One too early, one by age
Both must leave the mortal stage.
If death’s the answer every time,
No matter place, nor prime,
What’s the point of being born,
If fate was fixed the day we’re sworn?
And if death is subjective, ours to own,
A choice we can make, a path we’ve known,
Perhaps we do not fear the end,
But we would fear the life we cannot bend.
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Posted Mar 3, 2026, 9:09 PM UTC