Contemplations of the Ending of Life

This is a poem for which I drew inspiration from my own experiences of depression and suicidal feelings and actions - the latter of which occurred, thankfully, far in my past. I suppose - and I am a very open person - I suppose my diagnosis of bipolar disorder, or manic-depressive illness, and the many and varied experiences which I had until I began taking medication, I suppose the pattern of my life being very inconsistent has in fact proven to be inspiration for much of my work; I have writte



If it is not quite so strange to think

Of an abyss into which one may sink

At any one moment in time


Then let it not be so strange to think

Of an exit door which one may open

To the exit from an abyss

At any one moment in time


And let it not be so strange to see

That there is not a morsel of living yet to see

That there is no longer a place for one such as me

Within your so-called strange society

At any one moment in time.


And when the rose is dead

Its petals a pale – nay, pathetic red

Its stem no more stern than a fine cotton thread

And when the living of life has departed its being

And when there remains sight but not any more for seeing

And when there stand ears but none for hearing

And when being, alone, inflicts an agony near-searing

And when there lies a nose but bereft be it of the odours for smelling

And when there exist ponderings of a sale but no goods for selling

When there is life to be seen but

Gone is all living

Then one’s very being itself is rendered useless.


Then let it not be so strange to think

Of an exit door which one may open

To the exit from an abyss

At any one moment in time


Still do I say

That I will stay

And stay I must

Though no longer may I ever possess a lust

For life


At least I am here

You may no longer exist in fear

Of my departure

From your life.


But though I speak of my fortune

In remaining alive

Fortune I will never possess

Never shall I thrive


In your mind

In your dream

In your fantasy

Shall I ever in truth survive.


Though I may show

Seeds I plan to sow

In the seeds is no life

For they died long ago.


Not but a chance

Nor a fleeting glance

Of the life they would never



So I remain in your eyes

And I restrain all of my cries

For a key to the door to the exit from my own


For in my own mind

I cannot resist - - -

Never have I been so eager

To desist.


But continue I must until such a time

As I may be permitted to exit the mime

Thunder-silent be it

As not stand do I but sit

Atop the ledge.

Too cowardly even to stand for his fate

-         The eulogy of a life ended far too late

Which perhaps should not even have begun

Born under the moon; now friends with the sun


Or not.

For it is all nonsensical

For I only would rot

In a box

For all of time.


But more

That door

To the exit

From the abyss

Would only lead from ice to fire

Only deepen my mirth in the mire

So I can not



Stay I will

But still

I cannot say

That on this day

I was right

To stay.


Perhaps to fray

To flounder, astray

To slip back to the grave in which I lay

Prior even to my death

-         Which has not yet occurred

In your eyes –

Perhaps this would have been

A better outcome.

Perhaps in the life of the dead

I would receive

A warmer welcome.


But as stated above

No matter how I tire

The door leads only from ice to fire

Watery abyss to flame-drowned hell

And so I

Must stay

With you.


In your world.


In your eyes.


In your mind.


Never, however, in my own


For now.




For Ever.

The End

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