One cannot perceptively
And comprehensively write about death
And the obvious reason is
One is alive when doing it
Death remains an idea
For as long as breathing exists
And ideas are as innumerable
As the grains of sand
Even when individuals,
Preferably adroit writers or good poets,
Who have undergone
Near-death experiences
Can't fully set forth the ins and outs
Of death because they were not
Privy to the total experience.

The fact remains that we must all die
And be done away with our ****** forms
And transcend the physical world
And where our souls go is up for debate
They surely go somewhere to become
Part of an incomprehensible whole
And whether we come back to Earth
Or remain out there is another subject
Giving rise to theories or assumptions.

Death is favored by the ones tethered
With terminal illnesses
Unwavering cruelties, emotional agonies
And a host of other circumstances
Involving evil
So contrary to the popular belief
Death can be gratifying even magical
And I would go as far as saying
That death is a cure a panpharmacon
For implacable sufferings stemming
From the imperfections of this world.

I do not have a preference for where I go
After I die as long as it is not
A place described by world religions
Other than that, the road to
Indistinct reality is wide open for me
My spirit maybe zapped
To a poetic paradise
Due to the curse of being a poet
Then again, I may end up in Dante's
Inferno which wouldn't surprise me
For I have not been a very good
And upright man in my affairs
I wanted to be decent and virtuous
But I couldn't, I couldn't because
The world around me wouldn't allow it
Despite all my efforts
To disentangle myself from its reality
That wrapped itself around me
Like a vise grip
I'm a human, weak and unpossessing
Of iron strength after all
So I surrendered to pressure
And entered the turf of temptation.