WILL I?

Will I reach the age of seventy-four?
Before then, what does my life hold in store?
Will I find untold riches or continue being poor?
If there’s such a thing as Fate, will it knock upon my door?
Supposing it calls when I’m out?
Will it leave a card so that I’ll know (without a doubt)?
Will life pass me by like a fart or some weak sigh?
When it’s time for me to die, will I wonder why?
Should I burst out laughing or hang my head and cry?
Will I be brave and ‘not go gentle into that good night?’
Or quake and crumble, all cowardly and humble, hoping there’s been a mistake?


Choosing when I die is not a choice I’m free to make,
Unless I want to commit suicide and drown myself in a lake,
I don’t wish that, I’m happy for each day that I awake.
Life is precious—there’s a lot at stake.
Some people cling to life when there’s really no reason left,
And when people die, often their loved ones are bereft.
At times like these, some people rely on their faith,
They find it supports them and makes them feel safe.
Nihilists tend to grieve without spiritual crutches,
Suffering independently of organised religions’ clutches.


Whether you’re alone or in a gang, life can hurt everyone,
And the pain they’ll feel is real.
Some wounds one finds that only time will heal,
Although when we hear such clichés they truly lack appeal.
You might think that life’s absurd,
Or, instead, that Divine inspiration occurred,
It won’t make any difference if your arteries are furred!
People seeking answers from gurus and spiritual chancers,
And those who perceive themselves as crucial cosmic dancers—
Integral, yet insignificant parts of a greater whole,
Can like it or lump it… To me they’re much like coal—
Impressive in a heap, of little worth alone,
Heated, they provide a bit of fuel but can’t outlast a stone.


Seeking truth or proof, searching for a rationale is so banal,
If we examine human consciousness we will find
The human mind is like a dog chasing its own tail,
Which is why our attempts to understand ourselves always fail.
We’re too self-conscious for our own good,
It’s easily said—not so readily understood.
Descartes provided us with an eloquent hint: ‘I think therefore I am,’
Our invention of ‘God’ is a paradoxical scam,
Ascribing the unique self-awareness we feel to some higher source is a foolish deal,
If you consider this very carefully the concept is no longer real.
When were you first aware that you were you and here alive right now?
It was a shock you have forgotten—but that’s how we ALL began,
Before we could ‘see’, we just used to BE.