Colin F. Jones

DEATH

~ 1 ~

I keep asking but no one has told me,
That when my brain rots and withers away,
That I still exist after my dysfunctional body,
Disintegrates with the act of decay.
Who am I if I am not what I am thinking,
I can’t think if I don’t have a brain,
How can I be, without the essence of life,
My character with thought to sustain.
Does a spirit have no conscious awareness,
Is an Angel a hollow spectre of dreams,
Though I can’t imagine myself being nothing,
Being myself after death is extreme.
Yet had I died soon after birth as a child,
Who would I be, having not really been.

~ 2 ~

Fear of truth does not alter my thinking,
Though like others I fear to die,
For dying means I’ll no longer be living,
So what else is there to fear and why.
Due to the mystery surrounding our death,
Smart people can use it for gain,
They use it for power over the masses,
Forcing thoughts into the young brain,
That are engraved on their minds forever,
Making them believe what their tutors believe,
That only the trauma of truth can sever,
No matter how much they grieve.
Oh yes ‘tis an institution so clever,
That causes the living in the dead to believe.