Death-Seeking

I have thought of death
too often.
It feels like waste—
a needless script,
a sack of rotten thoughts.
 
A mind sickened, intoxicated.
And now this household,
so effortlessly ordinary,
only its ending
appears clear to me.
 
Or else, from fatigue,
a sudden flicker of God-vision rises,
blurred and blinding.
The beginning was uncertain,
but the middle stretch—
desire made it bearable.
 
Pain—yes, throughout life.
But wherever joy was found,
I took it whole.
Only, the place I was meant to reach
remained beyond me.
 
Instead I arrived at ruin—
where body decays by law,
where illness breeds pandemonium,
where disgust, doubt,
and despair live.
I arrived there again and again,
through corridors of regret,
with destiny carved on the brow.
 
Then, for a moment,
some moral sermon brought peace.
But when will this road end?
I wait,
hearing the approaching footsteps of death.
 
This is better:
between birth and death,
a weary mind,
in the middle of the road,
asks only for calm,
a brief pause.
 
To close the breath,
to float beneath water,
to vanish in an instant.
 
I count the days,
I hear the summons
of the final path.