I recall once in mourning
I smiled at the face of death.
I was surrounded by lamenting and moaning
But nothing hit me close to a single breath.
Looking back I ponder in obliviousness
To what this thing I really am.
I often wonder in much curiousness
If I am really and truly human.

The world I feel
With numb and dead senses.
I think I am no longer real
And try to convince myself of this.
But now I wonder
If it isn't death I feel so intensely.
Now I ponder
If my soul has not yet been born within me.

But death... I smile still when I see its face.
Dust we come from and then shall return.
More mysteries for the curious beings: the human race...
Will we live eternally or shall we burn?
I wonder what is there to fear?
Why is death seen to be so grim?
People come and people go, in and out, each year.
It is an adventure to go where you've never been.

Why do we live life to the fullest?
Why do we search for knowledge?
People die at the contact with a bullet
And at war we become the rummage.
We live and then we die.
Life is a mystery and can be fictional.
But we are always asking the question why?
Death... It happens. Everything is eventual...

So why be so afraid?

Sometimes, looking back upon things I've written... I'm surprised I was ever so eleoquent.