A poem written whilst reflecting on conversations with people contemplating suicide. Not one person, I hasten to add.
My previous post might suggest the reason for my preoccupation.
…
Dying is easy
…
She told me she was not afraid of death
No- she was ready
It was hanging like a curtain between us –
This last taboo
…
For her, death was just waiting
A vacant arm chair under her weary body
It promised nothing more
Than nothing
…
But as for me, I felt death to be
Foreign
A country I knew existed
But never planned to visit
Moldova perhaps
Belize
…
Dying is easy
She said
And I believed her
I believe her too – it’s living and making your life mean something that’s the hard part.
Indeed Chris!
C
X