Day fades into darkness, I cannot sleep.
Like a labourer working the nightshift,
I am stuck in bed, everything still,
wondering what the next day will bring for me.
My last few hours are meant for peace,
yet my mind is loud with thoughts of,
What will they think of me?:
Will they say I am strong
because I won a fight in grade three?
Will they say I am smart
because I built a house at twenty-three?
Maybe they will say I'm weak
because I cried when she left me.
Maybe they will say I'm useless
because in the world,I never changed a thing.
They will say many things when death and I meet,
But on my deathbed,
All I want is to dream
As the life I had was enough for me
Tell me something good
On my deathbed
Tell me it's not
All been bad
Tell me it's okay
Tell me it's okay
On my deathbed
And not a word before
Tell me I was good
Right before I quit
Tell me I wasn't all wrong
Right before I give up
Tell me something good
On my deathbed
Tell me my entire existence
Wasn't futile
Right beside my deathbed
After I've taken my life
Tell me it's not
All been bad
Right before
I end it all
The fever climbs,
my breath grows thin,
I feel the dark
come creeping in.
I hear the scrape
of hooves and flame.
He whispers low
and calls my name.
I beg him, "Wait...
don't take me yet."
There's truth I've kept
the world won't get.
For every face
I lured with lies,
dimming every spark
behind their eyes.
I chased that thrill,
that perfect pull,
the way their fear
could make me full.
They followed me
so soft, so blind,
as obsession fed
my hollow mind.
I kept my tracks
so neat, so clean.
No trace of me
was ever seen.
No prints, no proof,
no witness near,
A killer who slipped away
year after year.
The hunt was sweet,
the silence, too,
the world stayed dark,
the leads stayed few.
But now I choke
on every choice.
The devil laughs
to hear my voice.
He says my soul
is marked and claimed,
that hell already
knows my name.
I feel the truth
begin to swell:
I carved my path
straight into hell.
So take me now,
I've played my part.
Obsession was
my dying heart.
Roots reach for the sun
as the storm sings solo song
tree on its deathbed
The room hums with invisible prayers—
blue sparks dancing like ghosts of forgotten thunder.
He dies lit by his own inventions,
a cathedral of current pulsing behind his eyes.
The pigeons wait by the window,
feathers like folded circuits of forgiveness.
He speaks to the air as if to the future,
“They will laugh first. They always do.”
Outside, the streetlights blink in silent salute,
filaments bowing in quiet understanding.
Greatness flickers, then steadies—
not extinguished, but absorbed
into the bright machinery of night.
The tears catch themselves in my throat,
and do not spill out of my eyes.
He's laying in the warmth of my bed,
and I know his hands will go cold,
I think back to the time I've wasted- no- cherished.
The grief of sickness flickers in my husbands eyes,
Still I do not cry.
His research stirs in my head,
And I laugh sadly,
Thinking: God will not wait for him,
And still my cheeks stay dry.
God, how peculiar, how he makes my mind wonder
Of all the thoughts his data might bestow.
his chest spikes in pain,
I see it in his eyes- then across his face,
And our family's faces twists
as if our hearts are the ones failing,
Maybe they are in some way.
The conclusion that maybe meaning isn't in the pages,
But in their memories,
Makes my chest heave,
But no sob comes.
I see him smirk,
And turn,
And whisper,
“I am not at all afraid to die.”
Then, with a shaky hand,
I lay my hand across his face,
and close his eyes.
Knowing he lives on in books,
and in me.
The quote, "Now comes the mystery,"
American clergyman and social reformer
Henry Ward Beecher, 1813-1887.
"His final words reflect a philosophical and contemplative
attitude toward death and the afterlife.” Google
His deathbed holds the endless mystery
of where or what will truly happen next;
not what he'd learned from books or history
or what he taught at church as sacred text.
But from his deepest feeling there within,
he knew that death is not the simple end.
And so, his hopeful soul stayed clear of sin;
God's power, love, and mercy did defend.
Surely, he knew that Heaven was his goal-
perhaps imagined it a certain way;
But as a preacher, it is quite a toll
to understand what's real beyond his stay.
He knew the sacred mystery death holds-
but not the where or when of victory.
But at that last-breath moment, it unfolds;
his deathbed quote, “Now comes the mystery,”
“I must go in, the fog is rising.”
~Emily Dickinson
I must go in, the fog is rising,
outside my door the world is fading
and I won't see the sun arriving
to color morning sky awaiting.
It's been said life lasts an hour only,
days pass by as if a charcoal painting
left out in weather and so lonely,
leaving simple shadows in the waning.
Death does not kindly stop for me,
suddenly does it appear like night,
or perhaps like fog arising slowly~
and I must enter in to find the light.
The first lines in stanza two and three were inspired by Dickinson poems
" Sarah, remember that yourself is good enough. "
Sometimes words are spoken
To one, or just a few.
Yet they find a way to resonate
With other people too.
And throughout all of history
Her message echoes through...
"Remember that yourself is good enough"
As is oneself too!
This is a powerful message
Poignant and profound
A reminder that each person
Has potential to be found.
A guide to our resilience
Let your inner self sound.
You matter as you are
Not as a clone of others around.
So the Queen told Sarah Ferguson
And in a way she says to us,
Never to forget something important
Even when things are feeling rough
And the demands of life and people
Seem to grow more tough....
Just remember.... just "remember
that yourself is good enough."
An atheist living soul was floating above on deathbed,
because if he touched it, he would leave this world.
He let the pain out and screamed through his dying soul.
A guy who was once drenched in every bit of gold
comes to him and says:
“I want to make a compromise with your soul and body—
I will save you, but for the rest of your life,
you have to serve me.”
But then suddenly the man who created every bit of the universe
comes to him and says:
“I will save you, but for the rest of your life,
you have to believe I am real.”
Then the living soul thought:
It’s no different. Both are slavery,
but in different ways.
But he thought,
since he questioned God in the life he lived before,
he would face judgment for that.
Either way, he was going to hell.
He was thinking of every possible possibility
that would grant him some life.
But he died in his imagination while sleeping.
– THEBLOODYPEN
Pronounced brow with eyes sunken in,
her last meal was just medicine,
struggle one by one for every respiration,
it's as though it's asphyxiation,
the only good hand graps the window sill,
almost as though she has a regret still,
what it may be I do not know,
91 years is a very long go,
two sons she has buried before,
only to encompass a life with even more,
time left begins to shrink,
which could end the very next blink,
I pray for Granny to experience peace,
while I write her breaths start to decrease,
Lord ease her suffering on this day,
She loves you and knows Jesus' way.
Deathbed Prayer
I asked my pastor to pray
At the deathbed of my uncle
With my aunt and me
He shuffled his feet and
Looked away in an awkward
And most uncomfortable way
I, too, was uneasy
But not for the same reasons
My tears flowed freely
As my heart was breaking
He bowed his head
And said a quick prayer
Why would he be
Awkward with me
Or with God
I wondered then
Now I understand
He was a Preacher
But not a Pastor
~ Judy Bausch
We'll dread
If we're on our deathbed
We'll cry
For we're going to die
That sin
It's a turmoil within
So pale
To feel so very frail
In hours
I'll give you a flower
Suppose
I'll give you a red rose
Last breath
So taste the kiss of death
Track: The Lost Boys - Cry Little Sister
Track: Slipknot - Psychosocial
Remembrance for a choker in my deathbed
(Read-only version, a knick-knack too)
Precious finger, the witnessing one, Count
The forehead of a pious one, leaving a mark
Glowing along days and nights, prayer mats, in trying times
And prayers at dusk. Prayers valid till the sternest hairline dawn.
I touched his forehead, long past after the soul is gone.
He was the only one in my life, the only one of his capable kind.
He was the stubbornest hand holding me and mom inside an elevator
He was scrutinizing the sky to let me fly, however superficial it may sound.
I got wiser through all these years. I earned wisdom.
In turning grayer hair colors too, underneath the head scarf.
You will see my purple there, but I will label it as a purple heart.
Torn tears are in sheets of Facial tissues, also, in mourning mistakes, never to be known.
Just for my persuasive temptation, for the next one,
How many harms roads are there along the enlightenment highway in one full Cloverleaf, the old one?
During the essence of my last breath,
Know and bear in mind I was broken hearted,
Under the light and shadow of death
What is to live was bred,
Hear my knock on the heavens door till my last seventh
I ain’t complete,
A piece of me went wild and missing cause being lies and deceit,
Take it and consider when I clear my last breath,
I loved a soul but turned,
Turned out I loved really hard,
Gave my all and gave my piece,
Thought of it she deserved it,
Was I wrong?
Was I wrong to love that soul?
Was I wrong to care so much?
Is there a thing I could be remorseful of?
During my last days as I catch my last breath
I get high,
So I couldn’t picture the world be more colder when my sober eyes,
As I take a ride with death,
My only wonder is if dreams do come true,
As I look unto the world through my rearview
The life I led from sad to happy end
And I chant with a song to my death bed
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