Today I saw two dozen white roses
on a fresh, new mound of dirt,
and I wondered about the occupant:
When the darkness finally swallowed him
was he calm and content?
Or was he sweating in a struggle to keep breathing,
ripping apart the sheets that dressed his bed,
crying out loud for someone to help him,
and collapsing on his back,
all pale and dead?
Maybe it's me who's this unstable,
always obsessed about the end.
Why can't I let what happens happen,
and just enjoy the time I spend?
Oh, how I wish it was so easy,
but when there is no point to anything
it can get a bit confusing.
Why is that I keep going?
Why is that we keep going?
