(Written at 13, re-written at 20 and found in the archives at 30-and-a-bit)
Aged thirteen and late in bed,
I realised that one day I’d be dead.
My stomach gave a sudden jolt,
and in me found a strange revolt,
against the idea of ever ending,
and I wondered about bending,
time around me so I may stay,
ever alive and ever this way.
I wondered what colour death would be,
black and nothing or bright and free?
For the nothing brigade, I imagine a place,
within sleep, an endless space.
Before the dreams come, yet not remembered,
a remorseless void, the world surrendered.
For the bright old crowd will it be,
mists and light and jollity?
Will corporal bodies be permitted,
with halos and wings newly fitted?
Those who have visited have said,
Its like being inside love instead.
The thought of nothing leaves me scared,
although I’m also un-prepared,
for living through eternity,
in whatever form it may be.
A final peace of no more days,
or an endless, contented haze?
This is a choice I just can’t make,
to spout a platitude would be fake.
But though it left me feeling cold,
I have decided to be bold.
Even now when I am twenty,
I will admit that there’s still plenty,
of time to consider and time to live,
and time to come up with an alternative,
to going forever or standing still,
to coming to terms before I write my will.