The Last Meal Poem by babylon patrol

What shall I eat?
I’m going to die;
Maybe something sweet –
Why should I cry?

I feel a little cold,
It is getting late -
I want them to come,
I want them to wait.

The steel of the doors,
The locks and the key,
As they come closer
Sound like gunshots to me.

What I did & didn’t do –
Now it’s too late –
What I really want
Is an empty plate.

This poem that forced itself out during a meditation retreat is of unspeakable beauty and depth to me. It looks as though the entire poem was planned from the last line backwards and really this is the only way it makes sense but the opposite is true. I did not know where the drive to write about the last meal would take me and the experience has increased my humility and wonder towards poetic creation. Something or somebody quite hidden seems to be at work in creating poetry, perhaps reflecting or even coaching the conscious; an automatic writing that is only rarely glimpsed to be automatic. How much more of life may be inclined or tilted by such hidden forces?