Sometimes I awaken from a sound sleep
And wonder if I have died, for I rise effortless
And seem more to float than lift myself
From my bed and the house
Is a silent as a tomb must be.
I must remind myself that death is uninterrupted
But sleep is not and a glance at the clock reveals
It is slightly after 1:00 a.m.
It is as if when my death comes
I will somehow be unaware of my passing
And it will be somehow unbeknownst to me
And revealed as an unexpected surprise.
The story will be recounted
With all the per functionary phrases and
“Honest, I was minding my own business
And all of a sudden I was mortified.”
In the hallway, somewhere between the
Bedroom and the kitchen, the words of
A Gospel comes to mind:
“He who loves his life will lose it and
He who hates his life will find it.”
I whisper them through the darkness,
Like a chant, an incantation:
“I hate my life.
I hate my life.
I hate my life.”