They say, “You die twice”:
first when your body gives out,
and then with the final whisper of your memory.
The promise of that demise
is the universe’s only guarantee.
These thoughts the dark invites:
memories of faith, questions of legacy;
tossing and turning, waiting for destiny.
And I know the light will bring the morning’s call:
the way forward, the path to go on.
And I’ll look and I’ll smile and want to belong,
because who really cares if my thoughts are forlorn?
What does it matter if our conclusion is foregone?
I’d pay attention, but my mind is torn.
Darling, all I know is that the nights are too long.
I’ve been told I’ll die twice:
first when I answer the call of paradise,
and then when there’s no one left to verbalise
my name, my struggle, my sacrifice.
And I can use my pen and put it in rhyme,
pretend that I’m not entirely terrorised
by the one thought that keeps me up at night:
That to die at all,
don’t you have to be alive?
