The first time I died,
he stood over my casket,
watched my tired body,
oddly at peace,
hands still,
time still,
and for the first time,
he was at peace.
The second time I died,
he was there again,
watching,
pacing,
smiling,
smiling as he lay the wreath.
The third time I died,
they decked the halls with flowers,
banners that read,
celebration of a life well lived,
he watched her deliver my eulogy,
devoid of emotion,
she read from her script,
they never did understand me,
they all saw what they wanted to see,
all seated in black,
a sea of dolefulness,
as they queue to view me,
just like they forever did,
never stopped to see me,
he watched the tears trickling,
some genuine,
others half-hearted,
that didn't matter to him,
just like everyone else,
he too had come to pay his respects,
they lowered me into the six-foot deep prison,
the prison that was now my home,
from dust we come, to dust we return-
all I did in life was trade one prison for another.
He was me. He is me.
