The truth is, darling, that I'm scared of death
no less than you, but of a different kind.
The kind that squeezes you until there’s nothing left,
when you’re prepared to leave it all behind.
O, let it be that lightning strikes me dead,
or that my heart splits into two, succumbing,
just not the kind that visits me in bed,
when I’m awake, when I can see it coming.
Yes, I am scared. I’m overcome with terror
each time I see the senior in the lobby
attempt to walk by means of trial and error,
no longer able to control his withered body.
Yes, death is coming. It won’t pass us by.
It doesn't just apply to other people.
There is no peace or freedom when you die.
No soul ascends above the golden steeple.
Forget the tales that you hear of after-life,
it’s just as likely, once the lights go out,
that you won't know the place where you’ll arrive
or recognize the faces in the crowd.
Do not seek solace in these summer days,
in friends or family, in memories amassed,
all that you know and feel will be erased, -
death cheats us of the future and the past.
There are no remedies. No novel on the shelf
will let you glimpse the view beyond the curtain.
The only comfort, dear, is fear itself,
I fear therefore I am – that much is certain.