To Lazarus

I couldn’t have been more infinitely depressed, 

until I talked to her who saw death at its very best. 

Its true you know, 

about what they say, 

don’t talk of what you haven’t seen, 

although you will anyway. 

 

But until then, 

enjoy the hands, 

which so carefully fed you, 

and wiped your tears. 

Know that until death shall take them, 

they are yours to call, 

and say hello. 

 

For once they leave, 

this shore and drift, 

across many seas and oceans, 

with hungry waves, 

you will know loss, 

you will know nothing, 

you will not talk, 

for you will gulp down all that you preached, 

all that you said, 

about your knowledge, 

of knowing that you prepared yourself, 

for what you define, 

as nothing…

 

Wait till it strikes. 

Wait till it slithers its nasty head, 

into your very heart. 

Wait till it extinguishes your hope, 

 

But worst of all, 

wait till Lazarus gets you when, 

your lonely in your pitched up tent, 

far away from humankind, 

no woman to call your own, 

no one to kiss and hold. 

 

Wait until you die alone. 

No grave to call your own. 

Tagged: Death, dreary, fear, loneliness, nigh, Pessimism, Poems, Poetry, suicide