We are all falling,
Life is a drop towards ending,
You dear reader,
And I,
And we can no more delay or adjust the
Speed of our descent
Than flap our arms right now
And take flight towards the clouds,

And though we may aspire to the heavens
The only route out of life
Is down,
Drawn by that terrifying gravity
That draws us ever faster
As the years pass,
Accelerating steadily through childhood
Adolescence and young adulthood,

Streaking past the unknown
Mid point of our lives
But suddenly aware we have less to go
Than we can know and less to get
Than we already had,
And that as we hurtle out of middle age
Puts a scale to our brief existence,
And a reasonable sight of our end,

But these calculations are of no use,
As our muscles sag and our hair thins,
Skin wrinkled and transluscent,
Eyesight dimmed,
Because we are tripped
By illness or literally in a fall
And thus we reach beginning of the final bend,
Our flailing stops

As we reach our journey's end

That I too decided to end my life,
And a fascinating process it was,
Or is indeed - who knows?
(Like a scout it is good to be prepared)

For first there was method and,
Applying that six step process I have so often taught,
I have to decide how long
Should the process take?

I do not wish to exit in pain
Nor rage or humiliation,
But calm and at peace with my choice
And with my action,

Maybe not a firearm then
For in emergency time slows and surely
The blast and rendering of face
And skull must hurt

So the same with hanging,
That sickening drop and
Thence to dangle as darkness gathers
And my bowels empty

So with dignity then,
These things matter after all
And this way at least I have control
Of these important details,

Poison?
Now there's a thing but
Poison is inimical to life,
So how might it feel to die
Destroyed that way?

The plot thickens as
The form of exit desired takes shape,
Comfortable and unafraid,
No pain

But concious to the very end
And so a warm bath,
A drink or two,
And feeling the lethargy

As my blood  pours
From my wrists,
The darkness is coming now,
It's harder to type
my focus is dim
it dark
i think im leavignow
bye

I have gained more than a few pounds of late
And my soul is feeling it too,
The fog and the darkness
Are gathering fast about me,
Smothering my endeavours and choking
My initiative,
Stopping me achieving for myself ,
Or others,

It's a sense of constantly impending doom
That follows me ever closer,
Patiently waiting to strike me down
Or just slowly asphyxiate my essence,
And remove me from that
Essential interaction with others,
And the thing is it is much like hypothermia
I know it's coming,
I know it's killing me,

And right now,

I just

don't

care

Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani?
Christ called out upon the cross
But I do not feel my God has forsaken me
For He promised He never will,
And my soul is in His keeping always,
But at the end Christ said
"It is finished"
And at that point He died

I will never cry Eli...
But "It is finished",
That line I feel is perhaps
Time to start rehearsing,
I do not wish to pass alone,
Unmourned un-missed,
Yet in may ways that is kinder than
Causing pain to those I love

Time then - in love - to open my hand,
Let go the people I would depend upon
And fade quietly from their ken before I die
Such that,
Once word reaches them
Of my demise - though I was not their foe,
They pause a moment only,
Then shrug and walk on

"Really? Oh"

I have tried all my life to be
Bold and effective
And invisible in equal parts,
Quietly and without fuss
To help others,
To assist everyone I can in this life
Without recognition or tan-ta-ra

But it seems I have been rather too good
With my wand because
Nobody sees these things
That I do,
Well some do but of those
Some see in order to criticise,
Others just pour scorn,

For who indeed am I to offer
Help to others when I have
Nothing worth to give?
And when I point mute at the worth
I have indeed procured,
It's coincidence or their own effort,
No facilitation of mine!

Perhaps it's time for one last
Magic trick then,
A final swan song
Played to an empty theater,
To sail as oft imagined and written of
In that small boat to the sea's far horizon,
And make myself

Truly

Disappear

It's funny being berated for being too busy,
It's funny being told I do too much for others,
Or that I cannot save everyone,
That not everyone wants my help,
That some do not deserve it
And that I should rest
Before I burn out,

What those self righteous,
Albeit well meaning in their way,
Characters do not know,
Cannot know having never done
Such as I do every day,
Is it never burns you out
To help a fellow soul,

They do not know the reward
That the occasional acknowledgement,
Or simple "thanks" bestows,
Or how it charges batteries
Back to fully fit,
However low
They may have been,

But in one respect,
Although they do not know it,
My judges and detractors are
Painfully correct,
For though I burn my candles
Both ends and middle
And show no ill effect,

I have just realised as I sit here
Sad and lonely,
Heavy in heart and my usual
Confident footsteps slowed,
I could really use a chat myself with someone,
A sounding board to hear
Perhaps a hug receive,

But right now

There is,

Noone

The worst part of a funeral is not the sombre faces,
Nor the awkwardness of people
Who know not how to be at such a time,
It's not the heavy sense of sadness and loss
That permeates the air or the brash jollity of those
Who over compensate,

It's not standing to eulogise my friend
In so few minutes
When he was so vibrant and ALIVE,
Nor seeing in my mind's eye his face
As he lay recumbent in the coffin's cushioned dark
And airless embrace,

Not the sobs that came in public as I sat
After giving his farewell my all,
My first eulogy and sadly probably not my last,
No, the worst, the most awful thing was the wet thump
Of roses red falling on his coffin lid,
I tossed a handful of dry earth,

It sounded better,
Seemed more fitting,
An example followed by others,
A better more respecttful
And indeed final fare well,
Rest now Damien

Rest in peace
I will see you soon enough