They say we shouldn't talk about it; the ultimate, final journey. I've had a down day when I tried to do too much and I'm tired out. Although I didn't write this poem today, it does express something of how I feel.
Death
was always someone else's problem.
Grandad, Grandma then my uncles
aunts and relatives less known
fell ill and stopped by the wayside
their time to go came round
like seasons with the sun.
They taught us not to call it
by its proper name but to use
instead their euphemisms like
passed on, passed over and at rest
as though all life was tedious
to prepare for something so much better
than we on Earth could ever know.
The years pass by in order,
schools and student days are gone
to be replaced by work, homes
marriage, family and more.
Retirement comes and with it
loss of purpose, loss of focus
loss of friends and loved ones
funerals and comforting the bereaved.
Death
was always someone else's challenge
never something close to face
with sickness, disability and pain.
Death was always left for tomorrow
dismissed as someone else's problem.
Now it's mine.
(For anyone wanting to know how to write verses without all that double spacing that happens if you try to go to the next line, this was written in MS Notepad first, copied and pasted straight into my blog page).
