The Theory Of Death Poem by Gary Diamond

Everyone owes a death, surely as they owe a debt.
Or two; because you can't pass on without leaving a few favours
Unturned.
No, because that wouldn't be right.

For some they'll dig you a (w) hole in the ground.
Others they'll send up to the skies, but not as a bird.
As grey and black as the coal smoke,
Your last ride as ashes.

I had always imagined how it is you go.
Not the situation, just the feelings.
The way your senses would shut down, one by one, but
Within seconds.

As if a blow to the head, a knockout punch.
Your hearing fading fast.
Your smile evaporating.
Your words dying as you die,
Held upon your lips.

I imagined hitting the ground, the crowd gathering.
Or not; if I die in the gutter.
Undiscovered.
That could happen.

I don't like these thoughts, they're forced.
They hide beneath my facade.
They manifest as dreams gone bad.
They seek to force my hand.
Aces and eights, as befits a dying man.

So yes.
We all owe a death, surely as those unpaid debts.
Surely as we place our bets.
Surely as we buy the groceries.
Surely as we donate to select charities.
He's still waiting there, smiling, hand aloft.
He waits for what he knows is his.

Like the garbageman, or the bank foreclosing.
He collects whatever's left.