There are many fates which we can conceive
That easily prove to be worse than death.
The type of cruel doom most cannot believe,
The kind of affair which sharpens your breath.

You could succumb to plague, famine, or war,
All these atrocities, you would labor
For what may seem like an endless purview,
And all these nefarious blights, you'd rue.

You could feel regret for what might've been,
And solely dwell in memories of past,
Constantly question what you did, and when,
Think of why you went where you would hold fast.

Death's a luxury compared to the strain
That's inherent with life's shackling chains.