Death is mine. That death is going to be.
Well, it is not ‘this death’ just this moment.
End of my time. End of my entity.
The message it gives then, will be cogent.
Death is mine. Delusion of victory.
Well, cannot happen again. Its sting drawn.
Once is enough, though, to decimate me.
And no prospect, I can see, to re-form.
Death is mine. From the fatal dysfunction,
to commencing the eternal blackout.
And beyond, that will know no disruption.
My existence, on the stopped breath, snuffed out.
So, death is mine. It will only be mine.
That is how I will feel it, come the time.
No evidence of anything beyond
that could include me, miraculously.
It seems to be once gone, forever gone.
Knowledge points to that, most definitely.
Nothing of me, actually, remain.
Believing something else, a ‘funny’ game.
Make believe, … what’s determined, what’s fated.
Sympathy for all who must go through it,
as not exist when out the other side.
At least, fear-not Hell; to be sent to it.
Fear is ‘of absence’, which won’t be denied.
Will not be conscious from the passing out.
Not a witness to any sort of doubt.
Afraid of the end that will be coming,
but its worst will be when it’s upon me.
Rabbit-stare at the headlights. Mind-numbing.
Last thought before the destruction of me.
Petrified, but no choice but to endure.
The imposition I have to accept.
Absorbed in Nature’s immutable law.
At avoidance, be no longer adept.
Fear it is then, when there is no reprieve.
Shock at what is about to befall me.
Stunned by what I am about to receive.
Horror at the soon to happen cruelty.
It will be when the crisis has begun,
will realise only this course to run.
For all, it’s the fateful destination.
For me, this the only expectation
that makes sense. No other explanation.
Leave out of account, disinformation.
Conclude all to it, this inclination.
At the due time, begin devastation.
No wonder feeling of consternation.
Be unaware, so no revelation,
or communicative conversation.
The total opposite of survival,
heralds annihilation’s arrival.
Maybe it becomes the best solution.
To die last; to die being on my own.
May avoid hospital institution.
Other than sounds, be completely alone.
I’d be more used to the isolation.
Am probably less communicative.
Make do, if no one for conversation.
An appendage to just the way I live.
Of course, grief at loss of loved ones to bear
Certainly not at all that I won’t care.
May well push me to the depths of despair.
But that imposed on them would be unfair.
About leaving, because we cannot last.
Don’t want worry for me. Best I go last.
Read that stuff about decomposition.
Eaten from inside by bacteria.
Leaks from orifices and excisions
Outside, all the way to interior,
devoured by flies, worms, maggots and insects.
Prior to that there is putrefaction,
there having been bloating as an effect.
Hard to remember the explanation.
Remember, the brain sucked through the nostrils.
And, other minute life skulduggery
everything on the skeleton steals.
Powerless, against the intensity.
All of the mass a serving for eating.
Death has a feast on us, as a greeting.
Repulsive, repugnant, swarm of maggots
generating heat on a dead body.
Devouring until all the flesh is lost.
Speed of mass attack extr’ordinary.
I suppose the heat sort of cooks the flesh,
although it’s the competition to feed
raising the temperature; makes seem fresh.
Meat taken off the bone, without the bleed.
Purposeful infestation removing
every feature that recognising.
Only the skeleton, then, excluding,
as the bones, for worms, unappetising.
Dry bones the ‘dust to dust’ that goes to ground.
Maggot convector prepared … ate … it’s pound.
The essence, or some essence that’s me, leaves
upon my death, leaving only a shell.
Where goes, amongst unanswered mysteries.
Unlikely. Unbelievable, as well.
But not where I go, for me, the concern.
It’s that I don’t go, and stay in body,
and don’t escape, whether I rot or burn.
And nothing can do, for eternity.
Of course, it is really non-consciousness.
The end of me installed permanently.
Still in, and yet totally unpossessed.
With disintegration intimately,
and personally, without me knowing.
Stuck inside, as all goes. That way ‘going’.
You won’t need language where you are, Cilla.
Those nearby don’t communicate that way.
Accent too, …. there won’t be a scintilla.
Records down there can be set, but not played.
There could well be some talking up above,
But soundproofing better than any house.
No point listening, even for the love,
or to hear various voices, some scouse.
If you were anyone who had a heart,
from memory, could think from it, the beat.
And new rhythms around, who knows, may start.
Just awaiting your song voice to complete.
But won’t be language to sing, soft or loud,
live performance. Without words, in your shroud.
Instantaneous, the cut-off. Total.
There’s no reflection after the event.
No consciousness. No ‘unconscious’ at all.
All thought completely still; completely spent.
The last of Mind, uncommunicable.
Absolutely nothing to make sense of.
Nothing adjustable, attunable.
Senses finished with. Functioning, end of.
Cut-off like that, and no returning from.
An object having no life to speak of.
Inanimate, lifeless, but won’t seem wrong.
Won’t seem anything. Will have been cut-off.
This me, and everyone else who dies.
Cut-off inside, outside, and all besides.