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Dying is but a moment;

it’s gruesome, surely, yet short.

It’s the torment of living

what gives loneliness sharp teeth.

It’s nice, while in agony,

to have a kind hand to hold;

but it’s a petty relief

between endless solitudes.

For Death has no companions

and never longs for them;

while Life needs as a constant

another warmth to feast on.

The years to come frighten me

–the long ages in-between,

bearing just isolation–

not the blurry and distant end.

No-one will help this half-choice

which reason forced me to take.

Silence, oceans and tempests

are maybe as faithful as friends.

As the centuries leave scars,

my intent will be bared,

and, witness to my grimace,

you might learn from my disgrace.