Quandaries
I like to think I would transition well into the afterlife.
But I suppose I don't have much of a choice in the matter, do I?
No more earthly possessions or baggage to handle
All trauma- mental, physical- having been permanently shed
It doesn't matter.
You don't have any reservations when you're dead.
No questions to the desk or calls to collect.
No second thoughts, none to begin with.
No sun, no moon, no stars, no sound
No mind, only matter under five feet of ground
The casket, the cradle, the cave, the crib
The doldrums of no longer needing ad-libs.
The reaper asks me if i'm feeling fine.
I tell him no complaints, none imminently in mind
He says "that describes how you'll be feeling all the time"
And the chill of rigor mortis sets into my spine.
Already halfway forgotten and started to fade
Forget me nots being the bed that i've made
The can of worms opened, too, though that's just an aside
No need to start any more when i'm getting off the ride
No resolution in the scores i've still yet to settle
No finale, no bows, no roses, no crowd
No fitting conclusion to my