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