We catcall our deaths
Until they show
A little skin.
Then we run back
To the ones
We've abandoned,
Just to say
We needed them
All along.

We mistake determinism
For free will
We mistake calculated moves
For wishful thinking.

These are our lives.

And if reincarnation
Is just another form
Of procrastination,
Why postpone
The inevitable?

New organs
For old bodies.
Old souls
For new flesh.

When your day
Has come
Will who you are
Be the same
As who
You could have been?

When we finally hit empty
For the last time,
Will it really be
The last time?