Death is the mountain
That I need to climb,
The stream that I hear
But shall never find,
The goal I have not reached.

I am not afraid to die,
It’s living that scares me.
I have learnt
That Death is not a fearsome mystery,
Just the final, fatal comfort
That I seek.

Death is the prize
That I seek,
While living is the consolation
That has been handed to me,
As I battle with myself.

I am just a defeated,
Dying man waiting
For the fatal comfort
Waiting for the end
To complete my quest.

Death I constantly await
As the living continues
And the songs of experience
Are sung to me
Over and over again.

Living is the burden
That I bear,
The tragedy in which
I am just another actor
In this theatre.

Living bears the fruits
Of labours and seeds
Sown in the past
That germinates in the present,
Blossom and wither away in the future.

Living is the punishment due
For the sins and acts
That I have partaken in.
Living is the curse
That has befallen me.

Living is the pain
That has become my companion
As I travel down this road
Seeking the end,
Hoping for a release.

I am…
Still alive,
Still living,
Still seeking
A fatal comfort.

Praying for an end
To this torment,
I looked at a photograph
Of the one true love in my life
And the memories glowed.

I have seen these
Images a thousand times
And for the first time
I truly understand…
Life is a gift.

Life is a field
In which hope blooms
And sorrow is the seasonal downfall.
Life is the ocean
Yet to be mapped.

Life is the caress
Of a loyal lover
That lingers and nourishes
The pleasing memories,
Feeding the chaos of hope.

Life is a gift
That must be given back.
Joy should be the fruit
That its labours bear,
Wherever the seeds are sown.

Life is the warmth
That encourages the weary
Like the summer
That follows the winter.
Life is a gift, given to me.