Dead.

A corpse has one rule - just rest in peace
No tension, no duty, your soul is released.
No deadlines await you, no due date to chase
No more getting nowhere, stuck in this rat race.

Your body lies comfortable, closed in a box
And never again will you think of the clocks.
You won't think about all of this time that you're wasting
Sitting around here, doing nothing but waiting.

Doctors and dentists and damned root canal
Are as tangible now as the touch of a whale.
You have no need to worry about the cold and the frost
In death all your coldness and feeling is lost.

You won't notice the seasons, gradually changing,
Or realise your youth is naturally fading.
You won't dance in rainfall, or sunlight's warm glow.
You don't have to try quite so hard now, you know?

And all of those thoughts that once filled your head,
Like just one more shift, I can rest when I'm dead!
Or death must be nice, so still, and so quiet.
Nothing like life, which feels more like a riot...

All of those thoughts, they'll just disappear.
You'll know no more worry, won't recognise fear.
And right about now, you're dying to say:
When's it my turn, will today be the day?

Because I've painted a picture, morbid but pretty,
Of life underground, so far from the city.
Where the body lies still, at one with the earth,
And pinewood, apparently, was all you were worth.

Six pairs of hands shoulder the coffin.
These were the people you saw most often.
Sniffing, they sob, and their shuffling feet
Carry them back, from the grass to concrete.

And you find yourself feeling confused and adrift,
Wondering if there's a message you've missed.
Is death something to fear, or should you embrace
The call of the box, and sexless black lace?

Should you take comfort in getting to rest,
No longer working hard not to be stressed?
Should you eagerly turn to the end of the book,
Begging and prying for one sneaky look,

Demanding to reach the end of your story,
To bathe in well-wishes, peace, and God's glory?
Or perhaps, this advice, to you I might give
Don't think of death, but just try to live.

Try not to imagine your bones in the ground,
Weary no longer, not making a sound,
Not creaking and aching with each little movement,
Where stillness in death is a sought-after improvement.

Think of, instead, all that you'd leave behind
That essay, half-finished, springs into mind
And the great stack of books that sit on your desk
Now there's a promising, sweet, little quest.

They demand to be read, they must be, by you.
It's a promise you made; it's something to do.
And what of the poems that you never wrote?
And what of the words, still stuck in your throat?

Surely you cannot die, with so much unsaid,
We must pry out those words, get them out of your head.
How could you live with yourself, if you never tell?
Keeping your thoughts to yourself is a fate worse than hell.

So these words of wisdom, I'll leave for you,
A spot of advice, just one bit will do,
Don't leave all those thoughts unacted, unsaid,
Because, otherwise, maybe, you're better off...