In this place

Although most of us are dying in this one place,
through agony we go alone.

Acquaintances, lovers and family may be surrounding us
with love,
as we are getting closer to the final shut down
but we’ll depart unaccompanied.

Nurses attentively tend to both our wounds and every needs,
and though they do their best,
they might soothe the tangible pain but not the fear that we face           
all on our own.

Doctors here and there, passing by in a rush
they know all about our condition,
a precise compilation of knowledge on the process of dying
floats in their educated mind,
as they watch over us.

The most compassionate will occasionally hold a hand, caress a cheek, pat a head,
wipe a tear on a face,
 expression sympathetic,
but if you look closer, their eyes
remain distant
the core of their heart locked away safely.
In the end, they won’t hold us hard enough that we don’t
eventually disperse into thin air.

...That kind of strength...

And in these last minutes, in each inner infinite world
of the dying ones,
selfs are standing bright and tall,
emotions rise, wash over, cut, burn,
and the powerful mind try hard but cannot
grasp the idea of its own termination.

How can I cease to be
the main protagonist of this story,
will the world really keep going round
when my standpoint on it vanishes
-- how can the story go on without me?

Inwardly we whine.

Surely gods have been invented over and over
by people on their deathbed,
as, wide-eyed, they couldn’t look anywhere else but toward that one place
they had spend their whole existence avoiding.

The concept of the immortal soul as the ultimate defence of the mind,
when caught up with the insanity that is the idea of
coming to an end
and the perfect solitude that precedes one’s closure.

To think - while we still can,
that when they weren’t imminently threatened by it, a few among us had thought clever
to confront the prospect of death philosophically,
secretly hoping
 to ward it off.