"To consider so, were to consider too curiously."

I think about the day I'll die.
What will it be? Some downward drift
Through humid layers of unease,
A thick awareness of disease?
Or suddenly a crazy shift
Through grating gears of useless pain?
A jagged ripping of the sky,
A fevered reaching after breath,
Or just a sort of nasty stain
That slowly darkens through the brain?
I think too much about my death.

    They say it's a dissolution, the
    Dust forgetting what clamped it; they
    Say words will no longer have power or cunning.
    They say it'll come easy as sleep, but we
    That have through long and silent hours
    Tensely avoided sleep and know
    What dreams can be, who've watched
    The shadows on the wall, we
    Know what to think of that one.

Odds on we'll mostly end our hours
Where disinfectant smells prevail,
Where tetchy nurses shift the flowers
And trolleys clank and bodies fail.
And whether we still feel surprise,
Or whether pills have glazed our eyes,
We shall not know much more than this:
That Death must deal its dirty kiss;
We may not feel its yellow bite,
But that last blight both fierce and trite
Will fast or slowly steal our breath.

I think too much about my death.

Patsy Barnor

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