My death won’t be a cheerful one,
not like my birth was, though I cried.
I never met someone who died
and called it cheerful, really none.
My guess is it will be in bed,
at night and all alone maybe,
too dark for anything to see
too late for anything be said.
My birth was in a Winter night
the place was my grandmother’s house,
my mother present, as her spouse,
no doctor, though they hoped he might.
I was all blue and rather small,
they tried to keep me warm and well.
The midwife said that she could tell
I would survive the cold and all.
From where I came I’ve no idea,
I have no memory no clue.
I lived the way the others do
and never was another me.
To go back when my time is there
to black eternity, my goal
and nothing will stay here, no soul
I’ll be a molecule in air.