Death has been kind to me, whilst been alive.
It has not come directly to claim me.
Has allowed me plenty of time to thrive;
to consider and write my poetry.

It is central to many of the works.
Its imminence, and effect, and impact.
The consequence of the force it exerts.
The shocking fact, there is no coming back.

The starring role, but behind the curtain.
It will perform to the end, quick or slow.
But play’s logical outcome is certain.
Requires the cast, after the show, they go.

Death has been kind in granting me this time.
With it, I’ve expressed its voice in my rhyme.


Immortal, only in that existed.
Otherwise, like all, am all too mortal.
From living on, will be prohibited.
Know this time alive, is my miracle.

In the future, my life unrecognised.
Be covered by deep anonymity.
Name might be seen, if records analysed.
But nothing known of my activity.

Yet, in the sense that I was, immortal.
Place within a history that could tell.
My own, personal, life-story, as well.
Unique, but in lots of ways typical.

Although disappeared, the past always been.
Immortal in it, strange as it may seem.


So that is what death is, ‘endless patience’.
Just ‘out of it’ to help to cope with it.
Mind you, only sort of intimation.
Could be it’s impossible to predict.

But it’s a reasonable metaphor.
A still-life drawing, but without the life.
Gone, all the activity of before.
Totally absent, any form of drive.

So I need to practice patience. Patience.
And not to feel stressed with it, or burdened.
Not to think it is done at some expense.
Not believe it a form of exertion.

Do not need a huge effort to achieve.
After all, easy when dead, I believe.


It is not some romanticised notion.
Death is real. A real absence of living.
A remain like bone, lifeless as a stone.
Useless. Before, all of that believing.

Utter obsolescence. Utter nothing.
No coherent mouth and more for breathing.
Or brain, to facilitate rebutting.
Way, way, way beyond; beyond retrieving.

So those strange thoughts here of ghosts and spirits;
of zombies and the like; even angels,
actually, beyond life, don’t exist.
Sprites from imagination, magical.

God, too, is in the same category.
In death, it is a different story.


Humans do not fully recognise stone.
The nature of stone is what we become.
Inanimate, our odd pieces of bone,
when all the living and thinking is done.

Stone, then, our residual contribution.
That, basically, what a fossil is.
Stuck in the earth without restitution,
with no existing living properties.

Of course, plenty ways that may be dispersed.
To ash, liquefied, perhaps pulverised,
blown to smithereens, in a box enclosed.
In the sea; but all are death, undisguised.

Then, whether next to others, or alone,
the nature we resemble that of stone.


‘Welcome to oblivion’, I hear said,
‘we have been waiting for you to appear’.
I imagine I hear. I must be dead.
Maybe just a thought, but I’m not too clear.

You know you were destined to disappear.
Everyone does eventually.
So, you’ll just have to accept you are here.
A used-up, far as it goes, entity.

‘Don’t worry’, I think communicated,
‘you are not about to go anywhere’.
No heaven to be anticipated,
or hell, or the like, which would cause despair.

You do not have the means now to live on.
Welcome to your future. Oblivion.


Nature does not care if I live or die.
New birth, not me, is its priority.
All life’s doomed. To make way’s the reason why.
So to this fate, nature abandons me.

Nurture and supplies for sufficiency.
Those are attained from the natural world.
That extends my life considerably.
But comes the time, at which from time, expelled.

Nature, then, amounts to my disposal.
My decomposition. Dead in my mind.
Only as ‘food’ of any use at all.
To my wish for life, nature is unkind.

Cruel to be kind, perhaps, ‘though unaware.
By death, it seems that nature does not care.


A dead body cannot sustain itself.
Left it will wither. Left, and it will rot.
Gone beyond considerations of health.
Set to become ‘the thing that time forgot’.

Okay, revival of my schoolboy joke.
‘How does dead body get through a locked door?’
Can’t really. All functionality broke.
‘Uses a skeleton key’. Joke no more.

Disposal, then, the actuality.
Will see no more. Will be no more alive.
A place, at times, in someone’s memory.
From the person remembered, this derive.

But the dead one’s life will have run its course.
Key to eternity left in the corpse.


Unable to get my head around it.
Incomprehensible, for all I know.
Too complicated to understand it.
Hard to make sense of, for a simple soul.

Death, and its connectedness to living.
A continuum to disconnection.
An ending in nothing, delivering.
Perfect, or a case of imperfection?

Some problems appear as intractable.
Puzzles without straight-forward solutions.
Happenings which are just incredible.
Enigmas, riddles, mass of confusions.

The very thing that constitutes living,
and death, don’t quite know, although a near thing?


Nobody knows what death is. Nobody.
No glorified or horrifying place,
where still be deemed as being somebody.
Within a short while, no flesh on the face.

No-one understands what death means. No-one.
No treading the earth, or living at all.
Not even shadow of oneself, become.
All thought precious lost. Lost beyond recall.

There’s no definitive definition
to describe death to those who, on it, think.
To all living, sometime, fate’s decision.
That is that, then, with ‘that’ meaning extinct.

It is, of course, an end which the corpse shows.
After that end, though, … well … nobody knows.